#dorks

You'd been a romantic your entire life. Growing up watching rom-com after rom-com, reading novel after novel, repeating love song after love song...you get the idea. So naturally, you also loved Valentine's Day. I mean, a literal holiday dedicated to the concept of love? What could be more perfect for you?

Little you spent every year helping your mom decorate for it, daydreaming about the time when you'd finally be old enough to have a real Valentine, hopefully someone to actually love and hold in your arms. At school, everyone gave everyone little paper hearts they'd made in art class. It was nice, but it didn't feel the same as having one particular person in your life to be all romantic with.

So when you finally arrived at eighth grade, old enough to see couples holding hands in the hall, you were certain you were going to finally live out your lifelong dream. You'd even spent months basically courting this one kid in your English class, trying your best to flirt and drop hints whenever you could. Surely, if you gave him enough attention, he would reciprocate, right?

Wrong. God, was that naïve.

That day in February 1985, you received nothing. Nothing in your locker, nothing at your desk, nothing at lunch and nothing all day. You got increasingly desperate, rummaging through everything and anything that might’ve contained whatever kind of Valentine Justin Gruber could’ve left you. Still, nothing.

The worst part? You definitely left something for him. Not just a little slip of paper, not a couple of flowers or a baggie of candy, but an entire box of love and devotion that you’d spent the better part of two weeks putting together. And it would not be inconspicuous. No, it was big, lacy, and vibrantly pink, and you’d left it sitting dead center on his desk. 

Needless to say, you barely survived the coming week. Relentless teasing and jokes followed you wherever you went, poorly hidden whispers behind hands in the halls as you passed, marker ink on your locker that spelled awful names. You were a spectacle, a running joke, an example of what happened when you foolishly poured your heart out to anyone in the endlessly cruel world of middle school.

You considered transferring schools, leaving behind the part of you that loved to daydream and adopting an entirely new, heartless personality. But as things always do, it smoothed over. Seasons changed, you graduated eighth grade, and by next year, your tail was out of your legs. You mostly forgot the sting of embarrassment that followed you around like a shadow, and you went right back to being your usual lovey-dovey self. 

And this time, the object of your affections was Jeffery Davis, from your Biology class. He wasn’t popular, wasn’t particularly a stud, but he was funny enough to make you laugh when you were assigned as lab partners for Freshman year. So the following Valentine’s Day, you prepared a smaller, more discreet box of romance for him. You thought if you just toned it down a little, it wouldn’t scare him off, and you could finally have a successful Valentine. Again, you were dead wrong.

This time hurt possibly worse than the last, because you’d slipped a note into Jeffery’s locker, telling him to meet you in the courtyard after school. It would be low-key, discreet, nothing to worry about. That was what you kept reminding yourself of as you waited at 3:06. And then you had to start reassuring yourself at 3:44, when there was still no sign of him. ‘He’s probably busy,’ you told yourself at 4:32, your legs getting tired from all the pacing. At 5:53, you sat miserably on the bench by the wall, chin in your hands as you kicked rocks. You didn’t even know why, but you stayed until 6:28, long after the sun had set and it started to get chilly. You biked home with a deep scowl on your face that night, furiously blinking away tears. You refused to cry this time. You were stronger than that.

But eventually, the dam fractured. It cracked when you opened the front door to meet your mother, arms folded and a stern expression on her face until she saw the look on yours. It swelled when she stepped forward, asking you what happened and where you’d been. And when you shook your head, the pain in your throat stopping you from speaking, it burst. Your eyes spilled over and your face screwed up into an unattractive sob as your mother held you like a small child. 

After that, the rumors weren’t so cruel. It seemed Jeffery was kinder than Justin in the sense that he didn’t say much to anyone about it, but you still had to peel a sticky note off your locker that was calling you a very unflattering name. Not only that, but Biology class quickly became even worse than gym, with awkward silence filling every quiet moment.

Still, though, life went on. And before you knew it, you were right back where you started, crushing on Dennis Riley, the hottest brunette in Junior year. He was a year older than you, athletic, and the perfect mix of, well, everything. You had learned by now that going all out was begging for ridicule, so all you did this year was write a letter. Just a simple letter, blue ballpoint ink on regular old notebook paper since you were too scared to even use real stationary at this point. The only thing was that it was four pages long, front and back, and you still couldn’t help but doodle little hearts in the margins. 

It took everything in you to slip it into his locker, and several deep breaths afterward to get your heart to beat at a normal pace. You told yourself it would finally be different this time, that Dennis would be the one to actually reciprocate. They say the third time’s the charm, but unfortunately, it seemed that fate had a personal vendetta against you. As soon as Dennis opened the letter, he skimmed through it with an amused expression, showed it to his friend, and had a good laugh before promptly crumpling it up and tossing it into a nearby trash can. You made the mistake of lurking around the corner to watch his reaction, and felt your soul collapse in sync with your poor love letter.

More tears, more embarrassment, and this time, you swore off Valentine’s Day completely. Three failed attempts was more than enough, and you just couldn’t put your heart through any more. So as Junior year rolled around, you buried yourself in college prep, SATs, extracurriculars, and every other thing you could do to keep your mind off love. 

It worked well—late night study sessions, constant activities, and regular club meetings left you too tired to even think about who might be looking your way and whether they were cute. It was almost to your detriment, because Junior year was the year that Mike Wheeler started to notice a particular girl that he so happened to share every class with. 

He sat directly behind you, so it was impossible for him not to stare at the back of your head, wondering what the hell was going on in there, wondering whether any of the thoughts running through it could possibly be dedicated to him. Because the reverse was definitely happening. 

Mike didn’t even know how or when it started. All he knew was that at one point, he had no knowledge of your existence, and then one day, he found himself writing your name in the margins of his notebook.

He had spoken to you all of three times during this school year. Once on the first day of school, when you asked him where the seat assignment chart was. The second time was in October, when you turned around in your seat to hand him a pen after he complained about losing his pencil. He spent the entire day debating himself, going back and forth between returning it and getting to talking to speak to you again, or keeping it as proof that you had actually acknowledged the fact that he was in this realm. He settled for the former, and that was the third time he got to hear your voice addressing him.

Since when did Mike get so desperate? Seriously, he was acting like you were some sort of deity, scrambling at any scrap of your attention you were willing to throw him. And the worst part was that you weren’t even aware of the effect you had on him. Dustin, Will, Max and Lucas chastised him almost every day, telling him to either talk to you or get over it.

But how could he do either? You felt untouchable, always off in your own world or engrossed in something. It was infuriating and endearing at the same time, but eventually, infuriating won out. In the middle of December, you and Mike were assigned together on a paired project for English, and he saw this as the perfect opportunity, if only he could work up the courage to take it. You didn’t talk to him much at first, and when you did, it was only about the project. He tried to change subjects every now and then, steer the conversation toward personal life in an attempt to get to know more about you. But every time, you gave him the shortest, vaguest answers possible, like you were actively avoiding anything like this. Infuriating.

Mike was going to stop trying, he really was. He was going to resign himself to the acceptance of unrequited limerence, maybe write a story or a song about you to try to soothe the longing ache in his chest. But the party had lit a fire under his ass about you, and he knew he was in for a session of verbal abuse if he ever quit trying.

So he kept at it. Every day at school, he talked a little more to you. Even if you responded blandly, he could see the twinkle in your eyes that you tried to hide. He didn’t understand it, but he wanted to. God, he really wanted to. But carts and horses, right?

As Winter Break rolled around, your English teacher advised you to keep working on your projects with your partners, because they would be due the week after break ended. It was annoying, but it provided Mike with the excuse to bike over to your house every day. You felt bad that he was always coming over to your house (and embarrassed because of the knowing looks your mom kept throwing you), but Mike always insisted that your place was more interesting. You doubted it—the Wheelers were better off than your family was—but you didn’t argue.

It was hard to argue with Mike, especially since he possessed the biggest brown puppy dog eyes to ever grace the earth, paired with the fullest, most delicious looking lips you had ever seen on a boy. It was these dangerous feelings that made you shut your mouth tightly around him, scared of accidentally saying something too romantic and landing yourself back in public scrutiny. He was nice, sure, but you had to convince yourself that it was just that—that he was just being nice—so that you didn’t end up with another Valentine’s Day that ended in tears.

Unfortunately for you, though, that resolve didn’t last very long. You were strong for a week and a half, forcing yourself to be boring and dry. But Mike was so damn persistent, so it really wasn’t your fault when you finally cracked, slowly letting conversations drift into easy banter. That was exactly what Mike had been hoping for, and it did not disappoint.

When you allowed yourself to be yourself, you discovered that you and Mike had a lot in common. You both were heavily invested in Star Wars, both loved D&D (he was very surprised), and both liked the Pixies. Along with other things, you agreed that peanut butter should be spread on first, then jam on the other slice of bread, that pineapple on pizza was not an abomination, and that jazzercise was the stupidest thing ever invented.

And every day that you showed a little more of yourself to Mike, you felt a little more comfortable. And Mike? He kept falling harder and harder for you, to the point where one night he caught himself writing his first name and your last name together with the prefix ‘Mr.’…look, it wasn’t his fault if your last name had a better ring to it than ‘Wheeler’!

But aside from that, you could feel the spark. Even if you were too scared to admit it to yourself, you knew that whether you liked it or not, Michael Wheeler had worked his way into your heart. 

Despite spending too much time talking instead of working, you and Mike received a very good grade on your project. And all too soon, January ended and February came rearing its ugly head. This time, you flat out refused to do anything. Your mom knew better than to start decorating for Valentine’s Day, and you knew better than to get ahead of yourself and try to make anything for Mike. 

Just because you had become friends didn’t prove that he liked you that way, and you swore to God that if you had to face another rejection, especially one from Mike, you would simply crawl into a hole and die. So you kept your head down and pretended you didn’t notice all the red and pink streamers being hung up the week of Valentine’s. 

You were so focused on ignoring Valentine’s Day, in fact, that you became blind to the painfully obvious hints Mike was trying to drop to you at school. He started walking with you to classes, closer than necessary, making awful attempts at being subtle. One day, on the way to Algebra II, he brought up the subject of the holiday.

“I know it’s cliché, but I kind of actually like Valentine’s.” Mike shrugged, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “What do you think?”

“I hate it,” you answered, adjusting your backpack strap, “I always get disappointed.”

“What? Oh, me too,” he fumbled, cringing at how quickly he was switching up.

“You hate Valentine’s?” You raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, and he felt heat blooming across the back of his neck.

“Well—I mean—no, I get disappointed. That’s—that’s what I mean.” He wasn’t sure if that was a smooth save or not (it wasn’t), but it was technically true. No one at school had ever really liked him that way, at least not enough to make it known.

“Oh,” you said, “yeah. I used to like it, I guess, but then I just kept…” You sighed, shaking your head. “Nevermind.”

Mike tilted his head, but didn’t press. He wasn’t the best with social cues, but even he could tell it was a touchy subject. He still couldn’t ignore the itch to understand why you had so much distaste for it, though.

“Oh, by the way,” you remembered, and Mike was immediately grateful for the change of subject. “Mrs. Hanson said…”

The fourteenth of February came much sooner than you hoped, and you considered faking sickness and staying home altogether. You slammed the button on your alarm clock as soon as it started beeping, before promptly groaning and pulling the covers over your face.

“Fuck Valentine’s so hard…” you muttered darkly, a deep grimace forming on your lips. You stayed exactly like that for a solid five minutes, willing time to pass you by, until your mom’s voice called up the stairs.

“Honey, time to get up! I don’t care if it’s Valentine’s Day, you’re not missing school!”

It was times like this that you hated that she could read your mind.

You let out the heaviest, most dramatic sigh you could possibly muster, dragging yourself out of bed like your limbs were made of lead. With the most unenthusiastic look plastered onto your face, you got ready for the day and tried your best to disassociate from everything.

Pulling up to school was the worst mistake you’d made in the past half year, because it looked like the entire school had exploded overnight. Pink and red everywhere, over everything, banners spreading across every surface and confetti nestled into every nook and cranny. You were honestly confused; they never went this over the top before—or maybe you were so focused on boys that you just didn’t notice. 

It was like Hawkins high went all out and didn’t even try at the same time, with every kind of decoration you could think of strewn in the halls, classrooms, and even the bathrooms. It made school hell to navigate, and just getting to your locker took twice as long as normal. If this is what Home Ec was working on since the start of the second semester, you felt terrible for them.

You were so overwhelmed by the sheer amount of vibrancy that you didn’t notice the little envelope sitting at the top of your locker, tucked carefully so that it wouldn’t fall and be lost among the sea of tissue paper.

So you went to homeroom and sat down, missing the expectant look on Mike’s face. You tuned out everything until the end of the period, when the bell rang and you sat up, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“So, uh,” Mike’s voice snapped you out of autopilot. “Anything interesting happen today?”

You scoffed and shook your head, remarking dryly, “Other than the school looking like the Ghost of V-Day puked all over it?”

Mike gave a weak laugh, “Well—yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Other than that.”

You tilted your head curiously, dropping the sarcasm. “Uh, no, not really. Why?”

You had no idea why, but he looked disappointed. Sad, even. But then he quickly went back to looking normal, and you told yourself you’d imagined it. “Nothing—nothing,” he told you, “just…curious.”

You nodded. “Well, keep me updated if anything happens on your end.”

“I will,” Mike said, hoping that there wasn’t too much longing seeping into his voice.

Mike knew that you weren’t going to give him anything. It was a fact, plain and simple. He knew you hated Valentine’s, he knew why now (from asking around), and he was exactly 65% certain you didn’t feel the same. But even though the odds were not in his favor, he had to try. He couldn’t waste the better part of a school year of effort just to wimp out at the last minute, and if there was anything you deserved, other than the world, it was a real Valentine if you wanted it.

So he walked alongside you to Physics, talking about whatever you wanted to and not being surprised when it was anything but today’s date. Honestly, if he’d gone through the amount of suffering that you had, he’d probably cross out the date from every calendar he could get his hands on.

Second and third period blurred together, and fourth period was barely any different. When lunch finally rolled around, and you had still failed to see the love note in your locker, Mike began to worry. Had he tucked it too far in? Did you really not see it, or were you deliberately ignoring it? Worse still, did you read it and hate it so much you refused to acknowledge it?

You were oblivious to Mike’s inner turmoil as you sat at your table, stabbing violently at mushy peas with a flimsy plastic fork. He’d slid into the chair across from you ten minutes prior, forgoing his usual time with the party to be with you (not that they minded—he kept having to wave off the thumbs ups and knowing looks they were shooting him).

It wasn’t until Mike cleared his throat—a little louder than he meant to—that you actually looked up. “Sorry, did you say something?” You asked, a little guiltily.

“Oh, no,” he assured you, “I just—I was just wondering if you got anything. Like—chocolates or something?”

“What?”

“Well—it’s fine if you didn’t, I was just, like, wondering?” He swallowed, resisting the urge to bang his head against the table.

“Uh…no.” You replied, feeling a little depressed now. “I wasn’t really expecting anything, though.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He felt awkward now. Fuck, why was this so hard? Why were you so clueless?

“No, it’s fine.” You gave him a smile. “I don’t really care anymore.” It was a lie, you both knew it.

“Well…the day’s not done yet. You never know what could happen.”

Your lips curved into a real smile this time, and Mike swore on his life he would do anything to make you smile like that again.

“Thanks, Mike.”

“No problem.”

Mike’s words stuck with you, providing you comfort throughout the rest of your classes. But when you opened your locker to get your books for eighth period, you finally saw it. A light blue corner of paper poking out from the top shelf, something you had definitely not put there. With a crease forming between your eyebrows, you reached up and grabbed it, a suspicion forming in your mind. 

It wasn’t anything huge, just a periwinkle envelope with a little heart drawn on the front in oddly familiar blue ballpoint pen ink. Slowly, as if disarming a bomb, you slid your thumb under the fold and carefully opened it. Your heartrate ticked faster as you pulled out the letter, unfolding it like it might fall apart at any moment. You took a deep breath before you read it.

‘Y/N,

I know this might come as a surprise. I know you probably don’t feel the same way. But I have to say this before I miss this opportunity. The truth is, I really, really like you. Like, so much that it’s embarrassing. And I hate that you’ve never had a good Valentine’s Day, because you deserve it. You deserve it more than anyone else I know.

I don’t really know how to say this in real life, and you probably already know that I’m super awkward. Honestly, if it weren’t for my friends I don’t think I could have worked up the courage to talk to you on my own…anyways. What I’m trying to say is that I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine. And if you’re okay with it, I’d like to take you out sometime. You deserve not just a Valentine, but also a really awesome boyfriend. And I might not fill all the requirements, but I will definitely try my best if you want me to.

Love, (should I sign it like this? Is that weird? Nevermind.)

-Mike’

Your jaw incrementally kept dropping as you read, until your mouth was agape and your eyes as wide as saucers when you finished. Your poor heart—it was beating out of your chest like a rabid animal, your mind racing and short-circutting in a loop. 

What?

What?

WHAT?

…

No wonder he was acting weird.

You folded up the letter, put it back in the envelope, and then clutched it to your chest like it was a winning lottery ticket. Because to you, it might as well have been. Not only did you finally (finally) receive a real, authentic Valentine, but it was from someone you actually liked.

Also—Mike Wheeler liked you. What the fuck?!

You couldn’t believe it. You were so, so, unbelievably happy. You were literally about to jump around and dance, or giggle at some impossible frequency, or do something cliché that teenage girls do when they find out that there’s a teenage boy that likes them. But then the late bell rang, and you nearly leaped out of your skin, snatching your books and scurrying off to class.

Usually, you didn’t think much about sharing all your classes with Mike. You were happy to have a friend, sure, but you were so focused on keeping yourself in line that you didn’t realize just how much about him you were missing. But oh boy, you sure did now.

It didn’t even seem like you understood a single word your teacher had said in this class. You were too busy staring intensely at Mike—almost frighteningly zeroed in on him. The way his fingers tapped against the side of his desk, the way his legs were just a little too long to be cramped up in the little school chair, pulling him into a somewhat awkward position. The twitch in his nose whenever the teacher looked at him, like he was preparing for a possible confrontation; the way he occasionally blinked twice as if pulling himself out of a daydream.

It was so funny, so stupid, how you’d never noticed any of these things, all year, until the moment you realized that Mike Wheeler had noticed you. And suddenly, it seemed like a clever twist of fate that eighth period was the only class that he sat in the seat to the right and in front of you.

Forty-five minutes felt like four hours, and at one point you got restless from staring at Mike so much. He himself felt like he was under a microscope, your eyes burning holes into the side of his head and making his heart race way too fast. He couldn’t focus on anything, anxiety clawing its way up his chest. He was 83% sure it was the wrong move to slip that note into your locker, but now he was completely certain. You hated him, he thought, his pencil hovering over his empty notebook page. You took one look at the letter and were so disgusted by him that he would never be able to speak or even look at you again. He was so ashamed, so embarrassed, that he didn’t even consider the possibility that you might not have been glaring at him. 

But at long last, the final bell rang and the teacher dismissed you. You got up, gathered your things (you hadn’t taken much out to begin with), and just…stood there. Staring at Mike. Even after everyone else had left the room. He didn’t even look at you, too mortified to meet your gaze, but he did linger. When you still didn’t say anything, he assumed that you probably despised him forever and he should leave. He made it to the door, thinking that maybe he had escaped you, but then he heard it:

“…Mike?”

It was so small, so quiet, that he might’ve missed it if it wasn’t just the two of you. He turned slowly, the sound of his joints moving way too loud in his ears. His throat bobbed, and he hesitantly lifted his eyes to meet yours, expecting anger, expecting hatred, disgust, maybe even hurt.

But not wide doe eyes, gazing at him as if he had just hung the moon and stars.

And that stole the breath from his lungs far more than anything would’ve.

“Yes…?” His voice came out hoarse.

“I—” you paused, fingers twitching against the strap of your bag. “I got your letter.”

He nodded slowly, like if he made any sudden movements you would disappear into thin air. You exhaled.

“You…you aren’t just saying those things, right?” It sounded so dumb coming from your lips, like it all could’ve been revealed as a cruel prank at any moment. But the letter was sitting like a boulder in your backpack, and you couldn’t not address it.

Mike shook his head quickly. “No,” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, adding more firmly, “no. I—I mean it. A-and I get it if you don’t like me like that, or if you don’t like me at all now, but I just—I had to say it, I had to. Because you’ve, like, never had a good Valentine’s Day and I couldn’t stand by and let this one be bad too, and especially since I already…really like you, but I understand if it was too far, if you want I can just leave you alone from now on, or something, I don’t know—”

“Mike.”

“—But I had to say something, ‘cause it felt like I was gonna drown if I didn’t. Because I like you, okay? I’ve been liking you since, I don’t know, September? And that sounds so weird and creepy—”

“Mike.”

“—And I know I’m not really good at explaining this stuff. But sometimes it’s not really my fault, okay? ‘Cause when you look at me sometimes it feels like…yes?”

It seemed his brain finally caught up with his mouth, and he realized that you were trying to talk just as he was about to say something mushy. But too late, you looked interested in what he was going to say.

“Wait, what?”

“What?”

You gave an amused huff. “What did you just say?”

“I—” he panics, “a lot of things. I say a lot of things,”

Your lips spread into a disbelieving smile, and he can’t help but offer a shaky one in return.

“No, Mike,” you roll your eyes, “what was the last thing you were going to say? About when I look at you?”

Oh. There was no getting out of this.

He sighs, dropping his gaze. He mutters something like ‘knees and whatever’, and you squint, laughter bubbling its way up your throat. “What? You’re gonna have to speak up.”

The tips of Mike’s ears tinge red, and he scoffs. “When you…look at me,” he looks like you’re forcing him to admit to a federal crime. “I…my knees, they go…weak.”

Wow, okay. That was a very nice feeling that was blooming through your chest. You stepped forward, making Mike’s eyes flit nervously up to you again. But this time, you were smiling at him.

“Mine too.” You said it quietly, your voice only meant for him. And whatever wire that was connecting the neurons in his brain short circuited momentarily, leaving him speechless. 

A strange, small sound came from the back of his throat, and he swallowed it down, cheeks fading pink. Yours followed, and you gave a little chuckle at the sheer teenage-ness of it all.

“I guess that’s, uh, a good sign, then?” You tilted your head, folding your hands behind your back.

“Guess so…” He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “So…do you…what do you…?” He sighed, and you waited. “I mean…what do you think? Of, like, the letter?”

He cringed at his own words, feeling it deep in his soul. But luckily, your lips just widened into a grin.

“I think this is the best Valentine’s Day ever.”

“Yeah?” He said hopefully.

“Definitely.” You took a step closer, your heart beating hard. “And…yes. I, um, want to be your girlfriend.” 

It felt like the most juvenile, immature thing ever, but what were you supposed to say when you were this giddy, this overjoyed? It looked like Mike literally melted, his entire face relaxing into a soft smile. His eyebrows, those overly expressive eyebrows, drew up as his smile morphed into a grin, matching yours.

“Really? No bullshit?” He asked.

“No bullshit,” you confirmed, chuckling. He took a half step towards you, both of your faces softening. Your hands found each other, fingers brushing together before you gently took his in yours, interlacing them.

It was like you were pulled in by gravity, gazing into his deep brown eyes until you felt spellbound by them. And if you were spellbound, then it wasn’t your fault if you moved forward until your chests were separated by a mere three inches, right? And you weren’t guilty if you brought your free hand up to cup Mike’s cheek, correct?

His breath hitched at first—you had never been this close—but he couldn’t help but relax and lean into your touch, his free hand (previously hanging uselessly at his side) hovering over your hip hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure where to touch.

It’s not like you knew what you were doing, but you shifted closer anyway. Both of you leaned in until you could feel the other’s breath ghosting over your faces. You leaned in until you could count the freckles dotting his cheeks, until he could see each of your eyelashes. You leaned in until the tip of his nose bumped yours, and you let out a silent giggle. 

“Can I…?” Mike whispered, eyes flickering down to your lips. You responded by pressing them to his, kissing him for the first time, making him your first kiss. 

But if you had any say in it, it wouldn’t be your last with him.

His lips were warm against yours, just slightly chapped but full and supple. He tasted slightly like cheap Valentine’s candy, the powdery kind that your mom picks up at the value store and leaves in a jar around the house. It took a full three seconds for Mike to kiss you back, but when he did, it was so soft and sweet and emotional that your heart felt like it was going to burst.

You kissed Mike until you were out of breath. Both of you were clumsy and, at times, misaligned, but it was so worth it. Because when you pulled away, panting, his lips followed yours like he would kiss you until he was tempting death if it were up to him. 

“That…” He huffed, out of breath. “You—we, uh—”

You shut him up with another kiss, your fingers sliding from his cheek to his hair, burying themselves in his raven curls. He made a small noise, almost like a yelp, but melted into it, letting his fingers travel over your waist.

It was magical, the way he felt against you, lips moving back and forth in a dance neither of you knew but were determined to learn. And when you two finally pulled away for a substantial amount of time, he asked you:

“Does this mean I can take you out?”

And all you could say was:

“Yes. Obviously.”

A/N: holy wow okay so i actually think this kind of sucks, but i promised i would post something for valentine's day so i will deliver!! thank you guys so much for reading this, i had fun with it and it was my first time writing a kiss scene 😭 (lmfao you can probably tell) Anyways I'm gonna go drink some water now, thank you again for reading and stay tuned for more!

-DMIS

thanks to @kodaswrld and @lobster-graphics for these beautiful dividers <3