daydreams

He’s just not into you– not professionally, not platonically, and definitely not romantically. Despite the fact that you’re working the camera on your first assignment for him, Danny’s eyes seem to move right through you, his voice clipped, sending one syllable directions your way when the monitor isn’t showing a perfect read.

“Left.” “Zoom.” “Again.”

No please, no thanks, no good job—just the bare minimum, like you’re an inconvenient piece of equipment he didn’t ask for.

Which, technically, you are.

You flew out to Colorado from California last-minute after your mutual friend Jake—Danny’s longtime editor, and videographer—came down with food poisoning. (“Bad sushi,” he’d groaned over the phone. “Save me from myself.”)

You’d been a fan of Danny’s videos since his skits were filmed in his dorm room and his punchlines were seven second Vine wonders. You flew in the night before Christmas Eve, missing time with your family just in the excitement to see Danny behind the scenes. But now, you feel like the only true ghost in this shitty tourist trap mansion.

You’re sitting in his hotel room, as he scans the old carpet with an EMF reader.

“You good with that lighting?” he asks, not looking at you as he adjusts his mic pack.

“Yeah,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, unless you want it more eerie? I can—”

You’re interrupted by the loud zipper of his equipment pouch opening as dull plastic thuds together in his search for something he hasn’t told you about. He’s not even listening to you anymore. You clench your teeth and bury the burn of humiliation for the millionth time today as you watch him slam batteries into a flashlight, the reader, and a ridiculous headset he’s wearing.

You watch him through the monitor, tuning out his charming babbling to keep yourself from getting hurt by the insane contrast of how warm he is only when there’s a camera between you. You realize that he’s now sniffing the floor like a bloodhound, nose scrunched in concentration around a “cold spot.” The EMF scan shows a large patch of something wet, which leads off into a tiny glowing trail. Wait.

“...Is it pee?” you say.

Danny freezes. For a second, you think you’ve crossed a line—but then his shoulders shake. A snort escapes him. Not the performative, for-the-audience sarcastic laugh from his videos, but something real and startled. It’s cute. So cute.

“Oh my god, what?” He looks up at you, half-offended, half-delighted. “Why would hotel cleaner be my first guess?”*

He actually giggles, and you feel your chest warm. He’s looking at you, smiling with his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes blazing blue with mist.

The moment breaks when his phone sounds an alarm. “Shit,” he says. “We’re going to be late for the underground tour.”

And then his back is to you, sauntering towards the door and out, and all you can do is follow.

*

The hotel’s underground tunnels are colder than you expected, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something faintly metallic. Your camera's night-vision casts everything in a sickly green hue as you descend.

Vanessa, the lead guide, stops where the passage opens into a cavernous ice cellar. Frost crackles along the walls.

"This is where the night watchman went mad in 1932," she says, lantern light carving shadows under her eyes. "He swore the hotel manager's wife—who'd drowned in the lake out back—was standing down here every night, wringing lakewater from her hair." She pauses dramatically.

"They found him frozen to death right where you're standing, his hands clawing at his own throat... like something had been pouring water down it. His throat was found to be clogged with seaweed that looked exactly like a woman’s long, mangled braid."

You zoom in on Danny's Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His fingers hover near Vanessa's elbow as they walk—whether to steady himself or her, you can’t tell.

She adds, "Guests still report hearing gurgling sounds down here."

The camera catches it all: Danny's nervous knee bounce, the way candlelight illuminates the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs at Vanessa's joke about "cold feet," how his gaze slides right past you like you are part of the wall.

Tom, the junior guide, takes over in the servants' passage. His voice is warmer, his delivery charming as he points to a large rusted hook on the ceiling. "This is where the chef hung himself after the 1911 avalanche trapped guests here for three weeks. Strange thing is—" he lowers his voice, "—every December, that hook starts swinging on its own. Kitchen staff keep removing it... but it always reappears."

A draft makes the lantern flames flicker madly. You shiver, and when Tom notices, he steps closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

"Too much?" he murmers. "We can skip the hanging pantry if our guests—"

"We're good on footage," Danny cuts in. He’s not looking at you, but Vanessa. He points to her phone. "Show me those spirit photos again?"

The camera's red light winks out under your thumb.

As the rest of the tour group takes the tours built in free time to wander the passageways, Tom falls into step beside you.

"So," he says, voice low, "you always let YouTube guys boss you around haunted basements?"

"Only the ones who forget I'm a person when the camera's off." The words slip out before you’ve processed them, and Tom huffs a laugh.

"His loss." He nods at your rig. "You've got a steadier hand than most pros who come through here."

You are about to respond when movement catches your eye—Danny leaning over Vanessa's phone, his arm braced against the tunnel wall behind her. She swipes through blurry images while he nods with that focused intensity he reserves for everyone but you. "This one's insane," he breathes, and you look away before the bitterness can crawl up your throat.

You let Tom fill your brain with some his funnier ghost stories— lights turning off anytime he starts to pee in the bathrooms, DUMDUM wrappers materializing within seconds on his desk whenever he’s working the graveyard shift, and his shoelaces becoming tied together whenever he’s talking to a girl he finds pretty.

“Well,” you tease, “your shoelaces look definitively normal.”

“Maybe they’re giving me a break,” says Tom. “Maybe they want you to want me too.”

He’s not handsome, he's not ugly, but he’s warm and kind, and he’s leaning into you to give you a kiss you desperately need. The touch of a human, tangible proof you’re not worthless. Your lips barely touch when you hear Danny bark your name, telling you it’s time to head up.

Embarrassed, you lean away from Tom, who just smiles knowingly. “Let’s go,” he says. “I’ll find you when you’re done with work.”

Back in the lobby's electric light, Danny corners you near the front desk. "Did you get footage of the pictures she was showing me?"

Your mouth drops open. "Shit. I'm sorry, I thought you said—"

"You thought I said what?" His voice is a blade. "Are you not a fucking UCLA film grad? You have no initiative?"

"I'm sorry, let me go talk to her—"

"Forget it. Why don't you just go back to flirting with Tom? You're here to have fun, right? Not work?"

Vanessa materializes beside you. "Come on, angel," she says, touching your arm. "Let's go back down. I'll reshoot everything with you."

Danny's anger evaporates the second she speaks. You are both aware now that everyone in the lobby is frozen still, watching you.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he says—to her, not you—running a hand through his hair. "Didn't mean to cause trouble for you guys. Your shift's over, go have fun. Our mistakes aren't your problem to fix."

You follow Danny toward the elevators, emotion choking your throat. That honeyed tone—the one he uses with Vanessa, with the staff, with the other guests, with literally everyone but you—echoes in your skull and you stand in silence a few feet away from Danny, waiting for this elevator that won’t come. You still have so many segments to shoot but the thought of being near him for a single more second makes you wish you were another ghost victim and God, this elevator is not coming.

Danny exhales sharply through his nose, then veers toward the stairwell exit. The metal door slams behind him, the clang of his footsteps on the stairs fading as he ascends alone.

When the elevator finally comes, you let the tears fall. You hit the fifth floor and find yourself running past curious guests, past the flickering hallway sconces, until you crash through the women's bathroom door. Your best friend's contact photo blurs as you stabbed the call button, your breath coming in wet hitches against the phone.

"Hey," you manage when she answers, "remember how I said this gig would be fun...?"

She sighs empathetically, and you hear a movie in the background become paused. “Is a man being a disappointment?”

“Yes,” you sniffle. "He's so funny and goofy and charming on camera, but so weird et when it's off! Everyone said he's a nice guy but he's-well he's not a nice guy. He's fucking weird! Only to me! It's like he's acting or something, l don't know!"

Your best friend is silent for a beat. "Well. He is a former theater kid." You could hear her crunching popcorn through the phone. "It's on you for expecting normalcy."

"No, no, you're right-"

"Why do you care so much? Aren’t the Hollywood execs so much worse?"

You pick at a loose thread on your sweater.

"I don't know. I guess he's... well, he's hot. And funny. And I love his videos. It just stings to be so repulsive to him. It’s not that I want to date him or anything, but can't he at least be nice? Like on a normal human-to-human level? I’m missing Christmas for this!"

“Im so sorry angel,” she says. "Don’t you have a red eye? Just get your bag and go. Like, go to Denver. Go out. Drink. Have fun. Have rough, hot anonymous sex. Fuck this guy."

“You’re right,” you say. “I love you.”

You hang up, staring at your puffy-eyed reflection. After a few more embarrassed sniffles, you wash your face, reapply your makeup with military precision, and twist your hair up into a claw clip. The mirror shows someone who looks like they have their life together-someone who definitely wasn't about to spend Christmas Eve with an apathetic ass hat.

Danny isn’t in his room when you go to find him, and in the end you discover him pacing the lobby as you approach, his sneakers squeaking on the marble.

"I'm heading to the airport early," you announce.

He checks his watch. "Six hours early?"

"Yeah. Just want to be safe."

The receptionist chooses this moment to clear his throat.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am." His smile is painfully polite.

"As I was just telling Mr.Gonzalez, all roads to Denver are closing. There's a snowstorm coming-we won't have clear roads until morning at the earliest."

As if on cue, your phone chirps with a flight delay notification. You aren’t expected to leave until tomorrow morning now. Outside, the first fat flurries began spiraling past the windows, dancing as if to taunt you.

"She'll be staying with me," Danny says. His voice has a warmth you’ve been craving all day, but you know this is because he wants you to finish the video and get his checklist complete.

"I think I’m done for the day," you say coldly. “I’ll happily cover my own space.”

Danny holds your gaze as the receptionist taps his keyboard.

"All our rooms are booked for tonight-Christmas Eve and all. But!" He brightens. "There's a lovely motel down the road-"

"The one where actual murders happened?" Danny leans on the desk, his cheeks flushing. "Wasn't there a human trafficking ring busted there last summer?"

The receptionist's smile doesn’t waver. It says, quite clearly: Not my problem.

You sigh and turn on your heels, heading to the elevators as Mariah Carey cries in Christmas happiness over the hotel speakers. You hear Danny’s steps in quick succession behind you, and you both are once again facing the elevators in awkward silence.

Danny finally clears his throat. "So. Room situation." He won’t meet your eyes, fiddling with his keycard. "I can film the rest by myself. You should take the bed and get some rest."

The unexpected decency hits like a punch to the ribs. You think of the LA producer who'd thrown a latte at your head for "missing his good side," the cameraman who'd "accidentally" grazed your waist every time he reached for a lens. Danny had paid you upfront. Had only really gotten mad at you not getting footage.

"Wait." The words tumble out before you could can stop them. "I'm—god, I'm sorry. I've been so unprofessional. You're not even the worst boss I've had this month, and I—"

"No, stop.” Danny runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks in flames. "I shouldn't have yelled. You're doing fine. I'm just..."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Got dumped by my high school girlfriend right before this trip. Holiday and family stuff's got me acting like a total dick. And I’m sorry."

The confession hangs between you, raw as the winter wind rippling through the hallways. Your eyes meet. You're looking in his eyes, tender, and you’re trying not to drown in them. And he’s looking at yours. And you swear he can hear your heart.

The elevator chimes and Danny suddenly stiffens, shoving his hands in his pockets

"Anyway. Not your problem."

The silence in the mirrored elevator is suffocating. You watch his reflection chew his lip, both of you pretending not to notice the other looking.

"I’ll take the couch," he says abruptly when the doors ding open.

"No, Danny, it's your room, and I’m not even finishing what you paid me for. I’m totally fine."

"Yeah, well, you don't want to sleep on that couch." A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips.

He opens the room door and immediately reaches for the thermal light.

The stains on the hotel couch glow neon purple. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they are. You both stare at them in horrified silence until he says, “I’m gonna be honest I don’t want to sleep on that either. I’ll take my chances with piss floor.”

"Let's just share the bed," you say. "It's a king. We can put some pillows in between us."

Your face burns the moment the words leave your mouth, and you can't bear to see his reaction. You grab your backpack from the floor and hurry into the bathroom, emerging minutes later in the silk pajama set you'd packed.

Danny is already sprawled on the bed, a neat line of pillows dividing his side from yours. He’s down to boxers and a threadbare t-shirt, the fabric riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. One arm is thrown dramatically over his eyes.

"Too tired to film," he grumbles. "Turn off the light and call it a day."

You flick the switch, plunging the room into darkness save for the faint glow of the emergency exit sign under the door. The bed dips as you slide under the covers, putting as much distance between you and the pillow barricade as possible.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of the old hotel creaking around you—the groan of pipes, the whisper of wind against the windows. Then, a sharp thud from somewhere down the hall.

You hear the sheets rustle, the dividing line depressed by his body, his head propped up by a hand, his eyes finding yours in the dark.

"...You heard that too, right?" His voice is tight.

"Yeah," you say, "Probably just the heating system."

Another thud. Closer this time.

Danny exhales sharply. "Cool. Right."

In the dim light, his profile is all sharp angles—jaw clenched, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he stares resolutely at the ceiling.

"You okay?" you ask softly.

"Peachy." His fingers dig into the comforter. "Just. You know. Ghosts."

A surprised laugh escapes you. "Danny Gonzalez is scared of ghosts? After a whole day proving they’re not real?"

"Shut up," he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. "I can handle —" Another creak from the hallway cuts him off, and he swears under his breath.

You hesitate, then slowly reach across the pillow divide, your fingers brushing his wrist. "Hey. Breathe. It’s just an old building."

His skin is warm under your touch. For a second, he doesn’t move—then his hand twists, his fingers lacing with yours. His eagerness to lean into your touch surprises you, and the action goes unmentioned by you both. You don’t understand his mind, but you let yourself feel this softness, whether it be purely because he’s scared or whether it’s because he’s really warming to you.

"...You’re really not freaked out?" he asks after a beat.

You shrug, even though he can’t see it. "I grew up in a house that made noises like this. Kind of comforting, honestly."

His grip on your hand relaxes slightly as he lays back down, your bodies closer, your fingers still intertwined. You're not sure if it’s his heart you’re hearing or your own.

Two hours pass. His breathing evens out, his thumb absently tracing circles against your knuckles until it stills completely. The weight of his hand in yours is heavy with sleep.

And now you’re hyper-aware of every inch of him—the heat of his body just a pillow’s width away, the way his shirt has ridden up further, revealing the faint trail of hair leading beneath his waistband. The soft, sleepy sound he makes when he shifts, his leg brushing against yours under the covers.

You stare up at the ceiling, painfully awake. You’re holding hands with Danny Gonzales in a potentially haunted hotel bed, and you're pretty sure you're going to spontaneously combust before sunrise. Your legs kick, your shoulders fidget, your breath huffs. You try and try to squeeze your eyes shut, willing sleep to come. But then—

"Every time I open my eyes," Danny murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion, "you're still awake. You okay?"

“Ghosts,” you say quickly. “I’m uh, scared.”

"Bullshit." His thumb strokes your knuckles, slow and deliberate. "You're not scared. You told me you're not scared."

This time his touch isn’t just him being scared. This time his fingers tightening around yours means something, but he’s confusing you so much you could cry. You can’t think of a response, your mind stuck on processing every cell aflame from his skin on yours.

"Tell me what you need."

"Need?" You swallow hard. "I don't need anything."

"Yeah, you do." His voice drops, rough as gravel. “Tell me."

Your pulse thrums in your throat.

"Fine. I need to know why you were such a jerk to me today. What you think of me, what you’re doing. You’re hot and cold, and you shut me out and bring me in– I mean, you’re holding my hand still and I just–"

"It's not rocket science." He exhales sharply. "Girlfriend broke up with me. First and only person l've ever been with. Now I'm doing the holidays alone, away from my family, away from the one person I thought would always be there."

His fingers tense against yours. "And then there's you-gorgeous, funny, charming, smarter than me, way out of my league-and I want you. And I’m out of practice and I know I can’t have you. So yeah. Not my proudest moment, but... surprised after all those film classes you didn’t figure that out."

Your heart stops. "Who said you couldn't have me?"

Danny laughs—a startled, breathless sound.

"That's what you got from all that?"

Heat floods your face. You're grateful for the dark.

Another beat of silence. Then, softer: "You still haven't told me what you really need."

Your body moves before your brain catches up. You roll over, facing him. The pillow barricade is long forgotten.

"You tell me," you whisper. "What do you think I need?"

Danny doesn't hesitate. He closes the distance between you in one smooth motion, his breath warm against your lips as he murmurs—

“Like your friend said. Rough, hot, anonymous sex.”

Your stomach drops. Oh god. He heard your phone call.

Before you can panic, his hand slides up your waist, fingers splaying over your ribs.

"Or," he adds, voice dipping lower, "I can be nice. If that's what you want."

You don't get a chance to answer.