-ˋˏ ༻ ℳ𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒾𝑒༺ ˎˊ-

♡ melanie / she.her / twenty / argentina.

joe keery. addison rae. Adéla. emilia mernes. friends. fargo. gossip girl. sofia coppola. vogue. mamma mia. sade. charli xcx. stranger things. fashion student. just a girl ♡

currently writing: “the town knows” — a steve harrington fanfiction on wattpad!! ♡

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“backstage number 2”

☆ joe keery x fan fem!reader ☆

part 1

hi guys!! i’m sorry i disappeared for a little bit 😭 life has been a little busy lately, but i’m finally back. i think this is actually the longest one shot i’ve ever written, so i really hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it 🥹 thank you so much for all the love on part one, i genuinely didn’t expect it. i love reading all your comments and as always, my requests are open! <3

summary: months after losing touch because of bad timing (and one very unfortunate phone replacement), you unexpectedly reunite at another show. what starts as a backstage catch-up quickly turns into an unforgettable night watching tame impala together.

word count: 8.8K

warnings: fluff, fast burn, concert setting, backstage scenes, kissing, alcohol mention, mild language, public affection, no use of y/n

The formatting has been updated to remove the spaces between paragraphs, as requested.

The number Joe had written on the back of the setlist had seemed unreal for at least the first twenty-four hours.

You had checked it more times than you would ever admit, turning the paper over whenever your friends asked to see it again, studying the uneven row of digits as though one of them might suddenly rearrange itself and expose the whole thing as a joke. It did not help that the setlist itself already felt like something you should have framed instead of carrying around inside your bag. There were creases along the edges from how tightly you had held it after the show, a faint smudge where someone’s hand had brushed the ink, and the short message Joe had written beneath the last song before adding his number.

Your friends had spent the rest of the night insisting that you needed to text him immediately.

You had waited until the following afternoon.

Not because you were trying to seem uninterested. There was no version of the situation in which you could convincingly pretend that you had not spent an entire Djo show pressed against the barricade, singing every lyric until your voice nearly disappeared. Joe had watched you do it. He had handed you the setlist himself. Acting indifferent after that would have been ridiculous.

You had waited because you had no idea what someone was supposed to say to Joe Keery after receiving his phone number at a concert.

Eventually, you had sent something painfully ordinary.

hey, it’s the girl who almost lost her voice last night

His answer arrived less than ten minutes later.

almost? you sounded fully gone by the end

That had been how it started.

For two days, the conversation moved in small, irregular bursts. It was never one of those endless exchanges where both people stayed awake until morning, telling each other things they had never told anyone else. Joe had rehearsals, meetings, and people constantly pulling him in different directions. You were travelling with your friends and already had plans that had been arranged long before he had leaned over the edge of the stage and placed a folded setlist into your hand.

Still, he wrote.

He asked whether your throat had survived. You told him you had been forced to communicate almost entirely through hand gestures at breakfast. He sent back a laughing reaction and said he accepted no responsibility. You told him it was absolutely his fault. He said the band had played exactly the same way they always did and that your lack of self-control could not reasonably be blamed on them.

Later that evening, he had asked what you were doing the next day.

we might be around in the afternoon. you wanna do something?

You had stared at the message long enough for one of your friends to snatch the phone from your hand, read it, and begin silently screaming into a pillow.

The answer should have been easy.

Instead, you already had tickets for something your friends had wanted to do for months, and cancelling on them because a famous man had sent you a last-minute text felt like the kind of decision you would spend the next five years being mocked for.

i can’t tomorrow. we already have plans all day

His response had arrived a few minutes later.

all good. day after?

we leave that morning

of course you do

You had sent an apology you did not really owe him. He had told you to stop apologising and added that he would be back in the city soon anyway.

Except he had not been.

A week later, you asked where he was. He answered from an airport. A few days after that, he sent a photo taken from the back of a car and complained about having no idea which time zone his body thought it was in. You replied while you were at work and could only send short messages between everything you were supposed to be doing. By the time you were free, he was asleep or busy or somewhere else entirely.

Neither of you deliberately ended the conversation.

It simply became harder to restart.

The final exchange was almost embarrassingly uneventful. He asked how your day had been. You answered several hours later and asked about his. He replied the following morning, you reacted to the message, and then nothing came after it.

For a while, you considered sending something else.

You could have asked about the tour. You could have sent him a song. You could have found any excuse at all, but every possible message looked different once you typed it out. Too eager. Too random. Too much like you were trying to remind him that you existed.

He was Joe Keery. His life was filled with film sets, recording studios, interviews, airports, crowded rooms, and people who wanted something from him. You were the girl he had noticed in the front row once. The fact that he had wanted to meet you had been strange enough. Assuming he wanted to continue talking after the timing failed twice felt like pushing your luck.

What you did not know was that, several weeks later, Joe dropped his phone badly enough to make repairing it pointless, replaced it in the middle of travelling, and lost a collection of numbers that had never properly transferred.

Yours was one of them.

He still had the conversation on another device somewhere, probably buried beneath work emails and accounts he barely remembered the passwords for, but he did not have it when he first realised your name had disappeared from his contacts. He had searched for it twice, tried different spellings, and spent enough time staring at the empty results that Jake finally asked what he was doing.

Joe had dismissed the question.

Then tour continued, days blurred into each other, and the problem became one more thing he told himself he would fix when he had time.

Months passed.

By the time Djo was announced as the opening act for Tame Impala in Miami, you had almost convinced yourself that the entire thing with Joe belonged to the same category as the concert itself. An improbable night that had happened, mattered, and then ended before ordinary life had the chance to ruin it.

The Tame Impala tickets had been purchased long before the opener was announced.

You and your two friends were already insufferably excited. The three of you had spent weeks sending each other live videos, arguing over which songs had to be included in the set, and planning how early you needed to arrive if you wanted any chance of making it close to the front. When the venue announced that Djo had joined the show, your group chat had become unreadable within seconds.

Your friends remembered everything.

They remembered the setlist. They remembered the number. They remembered the way you had attempted to act normal while repeatedly checking your phone for the next two days. Most importantly, they remembered that the conversation had ended without any actual explanation.

One of them had called it fate.

The other had said that calling a concert lineup fate was exactly how people ended up embarrassing themselves in public.

You had told both of them to shut up.

Still, arriving in Miami felt different after that.

You tried not to build the possibility into something larger than it was. Joe might not see you. Even if he did, he might not recognise you. Months had passed, the first venue had been smaller, and stage lighting made the audience look like a dark, moving mass interrupted by phones and flashes. There would be thousands of people in front of him this time. Believing he would pick you out again sounded delusional when you said it aloud.

That did not stop your friends from forcing their way towards the barricade with the determination of people entering a battle.

By the time the venue filled, the three of you were pressed together near the front, close enough to see the crew checking cables around the circular stage. The setup stretched into the centre of the floor, surrounded on every side by fans. Technicians moved beneath white work lights while the crowd grew louder each time someone appeared who vaguely resembled a musician from a distance.

Your friends were excited in the same way you were, but the possibility of Joe recognising you made them nervous on your behalf. They kept looking at you whenever the stage lights shifted, smiling like they knew something you did not.

“You both need to stop doing that,” you said, leaning close enough that they could hear you over the music playing through the venue speakers.

“We’re not doing anything,” one of them answered, already laughing.

“You’ve looked at me six times in the last minute.”

“That’s because you keep pretending you’re calm.”

“I am calm.”

Neither of them bothered replying. Their expressions were enough.

When the house lights finally dropped, the argument disappeared beneath the sound of the crowd.

Post Animal entered from the narrow passage cutting through the audience, surrounded by security and stage staff. You saw the them first, figures moving quickly through the darkness as hands reached over the barriers on either side. Then Joe appeared behind them with his guitar, head slightly lowered while he followed the others towards the centre platform.

For one brief, stupid moment, every message you had almost sent returned to you at once.

Then the first song began, and none of it mattered.

You had not come to stand still and wait for him to notice you. You had come because you genuinely loved the band, and the second the opening notes filled the venue, you fell back into the same instinct that had caught his attention the first time. You sang. You shouted with your friends. You recognised every transition before it happened and reacted to guitar changes before most of the people around you understood what song was coming next.

The stage was larger, the lights brighter, and the distance between you and Joe slightly greater than it had been at the previous show. Sometimes he faced the section opposite yours. Sometimes his attention stayed on the guitar or another member of the band. Whenever he moved towards your side, your friends pushed closer together and tried not to laugh at the fact that you suddenly seemed determined to focus anywhere except directly at him.

Joe did not recognise you immediately.

He noticed your section because it was loud. That was all.

The circular setup made it difficult to focus on any one part of the audience, and the light coming from beneath the stage cut harshly across his vision whenever he looked outward. Faces appeared in fragments, visible for a second before colour and shadow changed them again. He could tell that a group near the barricade knew the songs. He could hear three voices shouting lyrics loudly enough to reach the stage during quieter sections.

Something about one of them felt familiar.

He looked towards you twice without making the connection.

The first time, you were turned towards one of your friends, laughing after she sang the wrong line and attempted to cover it by yelling louder. The second time, a spotlight moved directly across the audience and forced him to look away before he could see more than the shape of your face.

By the middle of the set, the familiarity had begun irritating him.

He knew he had seen you somewhere.

He also knew that thinking that way during a show in front of thousands of people was probably meaningless. Musicians saw countless faces from stages, backstage corridors, airports, restaurants, and rooms full of strangers. Familiarity did not always mean recognition. Sometimes it was only the brain trying to organise too much information at once.

Your friends noticed him looking before you did.

One of them leaned towards you during the end of a song and shouted, “He keeps looking over here.”

“He’s looking at the crowd.”

“No, he’s looking here.”

“There are people behind us.”

“There’s a barricade behind us.”

You ignored her and took a drink of water, refusing to give either friend the satisfaction of watching you search for him.

The band moved into the next song. For several minutes there was no space to think about anything except the music. Joe crossed to the other side of the stage, Wes said something into the microphone that made the crowd laugh, and the three of you shouted along with everyone else when the song ended.

Then there was a pause.

Not a dramatic one. Just the few seconds needed to adjust equipment and prepare for the next song. The noise from the audience surged into the opening, individual voices competing to be heard before the instruments started again.

You had already screamed enough that your throat felt rough.

That did not stop you.

“JOE, YOU’RE SO HOT!”

The words left your mouth with no plan behind them.

Both friends snapped towards you. One doubled over against the barricade, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. The other covered her face with both hands, shoulders shaking.

Onstage, Joe lifted his head.

“What?”

The response came through the microphone before he had fully decided to say it, amused and slightly confused. The crowd around you erupted, partly because he had answered and partly because several sections had no idea who he was answering.

You shouted it again, but the noise swallowed most of the sentence.

Joe narrowed his eyes against the lights and stepped closer to your side of the stage.

“Oh, hey,” he said, laughing as though he could see whoever had yelled clearly enough to acknowledge them, even though all he really had was a vague outline and the certainty that the voice had stirred something in his memory.

Your friends were completely useless after that.

One grabbed your arm hard enough to make you stumble sideways. The other was staring at Joe with an expression of open disbelief, silently mouthing that he had answered you as though you had not also heard it through an enormous sound system.

You tried to tell them that it meant nothing.

You were still smiling when the next song began.

Joe was, too.

He did not properly identify you until the set was over.

The band finished to a roar that seemed to travel around the entire circular stage. They thanked the crowd, threw a few remaining picks, and began moving towards the exit route while crew members hurried forward to start changing equipment for Tame Impala. The transition had to happen quickly. Cases rolled onto the platform almost before the final feedback disappeared, and security formed a moving line to clear a path through the audience.

You knew the band would pass close to your section.

So did everyone else.

The barricade shifted beneath the pressure as people leaned forward, raising phones and stretching their hands into the narrow walkway. Security repeatedly told everyone to step back, but the warning barely changed anything. Your friends pushed you towards the edge of the group, both insisting you needed to be closest to the passage.

“You’re being insane,” you told them, trying to keep your balance.

“You’re welcome,” one replied.

Joe appeared behind two other members of the band, still holding the guitar pick he had used during the final song. His hair was damp from the heat, his shirt clinging slightly at the collar, and he looked more focused on following security through the chaos than on any one person in the crowd.

He slapped several outstretched hands as he passed.

Then he reached you.

Your hand was one among dozens at first. He touched it briefly, already turning towards the next person, and nearly continued walking.

Something made him look back.

Maybe it was your face now that the stage lights were no longer between you. Maybe it was your expression, caught somewhere between excitement and the nervous expectation that he would move past without recognising you. Maybe it was simply the fact that he had spent an entire set trying to place a voice he had heard months earlier.

His pace slowed.

You saw the exact moment the familiarity settled into recognition.

Joe’s eyebrows lifted, and a short, surprised laugh escaped him. He did not stop long enough to create a scene because the people behind him were still moving and security was trying to keep the path open, but he turned fully towards you for one second.

He reached for your hand again.

This time, instead of a quick touch, his fingers closed around yours. He pressed the guitar pick into your palm and held your hand just long enough to make it clear that it had not been an accident.

“Hey,” he said, almost lost beneath the crowd.

You stared at him.

“Hi.”

There was no time for anything better. No perfect line, no reference to the messages, no explanation for why months had passed without either of you managing to speak again.

Joe glanced at your two friends behind you. Both had gone strangely quiet now that he was close enough to hear them.

Then as he waked away, he looked at the security guard walking beside him.

“Those three,” he said, pointing subtly towards your group. “Can you bring them back?”

The guard followed his gesture. “All three?”

“Yeah. In a few minutes.”

Joe looked at you once more, as though confirming you had understood him, then security pushed the line forward and he had to keep moving.

Your hand remained closed around the pick.

For several seconds, none of you spoke.

The crowd surged back into the space left by the band, everyone beginning to reposition themselves for Tame Impala while the crew dismantled and rebuilt parts of the stage. Your two friends turned towards you at exactly the same time.

“What just happened?” one asked.

You opened your hand.

The pick sat in the centre of your palm, warm from his fingers.

“He told security to bring us back,” the other said, sounding as though repeating it might make the sentence easier to understand. “He specifically said all three.”

“I heard him.”

“You’re being way too calm.”

“I’m not calm.”

Your voice cracked slightly on the final word, destroying any possibility that they might believe you.

Both of them began laughing.

The next five minutes felt longer than the entire Post Animal set.

You stayed near the barricade because you had no idea what else to do. Every member of security who passed made all three of you look up. Your friends kept adjusting their clothes, checking their hair using their phone cameras, and telling each other to act normal while behaving in the least normal way possible.

“You’re not allowed to mention the text messages,” you warned them.

One friend looked offended. “Why would I mention the text messages?”

“Because you have no self-control.”

“You’re the one who screamed that he was hot through a silent venue.”

“It wasn’t silent.”

“It became silent to me the second you did that.”

Before you could answer, the security guard returned.

He leaned over the barrier and pointed towards the three of you. “You’re with her?”

Your friends nodded instantly.

“Come this way.”

The crowd around you noticed.

Several people began asking what was happening while the guard opened a narrow section near the barricade. You slipped through first, your friends directly behind you, and tried not to think about the number of phones turning in your direction. The guard led you away from the main floor through a side entrance beneath the seating, where the sound of the crowd became muffled by concrete walls and heavy doors.

The backstage corridors were colder than the venue and brighter than you expected. The shift from coloured stage lighting to plain fluorescent white made everything feel abruptly real. Crew members pushed equipment cases past you. Someone carrying a bundle of cables stepped aside at the last second. Voices came from rooms with temporary signs taped to the doors, and every few feet another member of staff hurried past with a radio clipped to their clothing.

Your friends had become silent.

You looked back at them.

The friend who had spent the entire show shouting now held both hands tightly around her phone, eyes moving across everything as though she were afraid to miss a detail. The other caught your gaze and immediately began smiling.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“I was going to say you look terrified.”

“I’m not terrified.”

“You keep lying today.”

The security guard glanced back, amused, but did not interrupt.

He led you through another doorway and into a wider backstage area crowded with members of Post Animal, technicians, a few guests, and people wearing laminates you could not read from a distance. The band had only just returned. Bottles of water were being passed around. Someone had opened a cooler near a row of folding chairs, and several instruments were already being moved towards cases.

Joe was sitting on the edge of a large black flight case with a towel draped around his neck, listening to Javi say something while attempting to open a bottle of water.

He saw you almost immediately.

His attention shifted past Javi’s shoulder, and the tired expression left his face.

“There she is,” he said.

Javi turned.

So did two other members of the band.

You felt both friends move closer behind you.

Joe stood, finally managing to twist the bottle cap loose. He took a quick drink before walking towards the three of you, looking between your face and the pick still held in your hand.

“You kept it,” he said.

“It’s been five minutes.”

“People lose things fast around here.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

Javi made a short sound behind him, something between a laugh and an approving reaction.

Joe looked over his shoulder. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your friends were trying not to laugh. One failed first, hiding it behind her hand. Joe glanced towards her, then at the other, who immediately looked down as though being caught watching him was somehow embarrassing after she had stood in the front row of his show.

“You guys can talk,” he told them. “We’re not going to make you sign anything.”

That made both of them laugh properly.

“They were louder before,” you said.

“We were not,” one protested.

Joe pointed towards the venue. “I heard all three of you from the stage.”

“That was mostly her.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It was definitely mostly you,” your other friend added, enjoying the chance to turn against you. “She’s the one who yelled during the silence.”

Joe looked back at you, recognition dawning for a second time.

“That was you?”

You stared at him. “You knew that.”

“I couldn’t see anything. Those lights are basically pointed directly into our eyes.”

“So you said ‘oh, hey’ to a random voice?”

“I had a feeling.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It was a strong feeling.”

Javi walked past with his own bottle of water. “He spent half the set staring at your section like he was trying to solve something.”

Joe turned towards him. “You have somewhere else to be?”

“No.”

“Maybe find somewhere.”

Javi grinned and remained exactly where he was.

The awkwardness that had followed you through the corridor began to disappear. It helped that Joe did not act as though he had brought you backstage for a serious private reunion. He introduced your friends to the people standing nearby, and the others welcomed them into the space without making the situation feel like an interruption. Someone offered all three of you water. Another person moved a few bags from the folding chairs so you could sit if you wanted.

Your friends remained slightly quieter than usual, but not silent. Their nerves showed mainly in how often they looked at each other before answering, as though checking whether they were allowed to admit how excited they were. They told the band they had followed their music for years. One mentioned a song she had been hoping would make the setlist, and the conversation quickly turned into a debate over which tracks were most difficult to perform live.

Joe stayed beside you through most of it.

Not so close that the choice seemed obvious, but close enough that every time the group shifted, he ended up in the same place. When someone opened the cooler and passed drinks around, he handed one to you before taking anything for himself.

For the first few minutes, neither of you mentioned the phone.

There were easier things to talk about.

Miami. The heat. The show. The circular stage, which Joe said was far more disorienting from the middle than it appeared from the crowd. You told him it looked incredible. He told you that was because you had not spent soundcheck trying to figure out which direction counted as the front.

Your friends slowly became more comfortable. One of them asked Javi a question about the tour and ended up talking to him for several minutes. The other was pulled into a discussion with Sam and Jake about Tame Impala’s live arrangements. She kept glancing towards you with an expression that clearly said she could not believe any of this was happening, but at least she was no longer standing behind you like she had forgotten how conversations worked.

Joe took another drink and leaned back against the flight case.

“So,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “I owe you an explanation.”

You looked at him. “Do you?”

“Probably.”

“That sounds convincing.”

“No, I do. I just don’t know whether it makes me look better or worse.”

You waited.

He rubbed the side of the bottle with his thumb, looking briefly embarrassed in a way that made the entire thing feel less intimidating.

“I changed phones.”

You blinked. “That’s the explanation?”

“It broke.”

“And your new phone doesn’t send messages?”

“It does. Usually.”

“Impressive.”

“I lost some contacts when everything transferred.”

You stared at him for a second, then felt yourself begin to smile despite trying not to.

“You lost my number.”

“I didn’t lose it on purpose.”

“That’s exactly what someone who lost a number would say.”

“I tried to find it.”

“How?”

Joe paused.

You raised your eyebrows.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I searched.”

“Where?”

“In my phone.”

“The phone that didn’t have it?”

He looked at you, apparently deciding whether to defend himself or accept that the explanation sounded ridiculous.

“When you say it like that, it seems less effective.”

“It was never effective.”

He laughed, lowering his head for a moment. “Okay. You’re right.”

“I assumed you just didn’t want to talk anymore.”

The sentence came out more honestly than you intended. There was no accusation in it, but it changed his expression slightly.

“I did,” he said. “Want to talk, I mean.”

You glanced down at the drink in your hands.

“You could’ve probably found me.”

“I know.”

“I could’ve written again too.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You gave him a look that should have made the answer obvious.

“Because you’re you.”

“That explains nothing.”

“You’re famous. We talked for two days, couldn’t make plans, and then the conversation stopped. I wasn’t going to keep messaging you until you answered.”

Joe frowned slightly. “I answered.”

“Until the phone thing.”

“Right.”

“And I didn’t know about the phone thing.”

“Also right.”

“So from my perspective, it looked like you got busy and forgot about it.”

He nodded, accepting the logic even though he did not seem to like it.

“I didn’t forget.”

Something in the way he said it made you look at him again.

It was not dramatic. He did not hold your gaze as if making a confession, and he did not try to turn a failed text exchange into evidence of some enormous hidden feeling. He said it plainly, almost frustrated by the months of misunderstanding contained inside such a small problem.

You believed him.

Before either of you could answer, one of your friends appeared at your side with a beer she had apparently been given by someone near the cooler.

“Are we interrupting?” she asked, already smiling in a way that proved she hoped the answer was yes.

“Yes,” you said.

“No,” Joe said at the same time.

She looked between you. “Interesting.”

“Go away.”

“I came to tell you they’re starting the stage visuals.”

From beyond the backstage walls, the crowd had begun growing louder. A low, distorted sound rolled through the venue as the final equipment checks ended. Someone nearby said there were roughly ten minutes until Tame Impala went on.

Your friend did not leave immediately.

Instead, she looked at Joe. “She thought you ghosted her.”

You closed your eyes.

Joe laughed. “We covered that.”

“She complained about it for weeks.”

“I did not.”

Your second friend joined the group at exactly the wrong moment. “She did.”

“You’re both horrible.”

“We’re being honest.”

Joe took a slow drink, visibly enjoying your discomfort. “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” you answered.

One of your friends ignored you. “Mostly that she wasn’t going to embarrass herself by writing again.”

“That part I believe.”

“And that famous people probably have someone whose job is deleting numbers.”

Joe looked genuinely confused. “Why would anyone have that job?”

“I never said that.”

“You said something like that.”

“I was joking.”

Javi had wandered close enough to hear the final part of the conversation. “We should hire someone for that.”

Joe pointed at him without looking away from you. “You’re all being very helpful.”

Your friends laughed, and even you could not stay annoyed for long. The entire situation was too strange to take seriously. An hour earlier, the three of you had been pressed against a barricade wondering whether Joe could see you. Now your friends were exposing every ridiculous thing you had said after the first concert while members of Post Animal stood around drinking and preparing to watch Tame Impala.

Another member of the crew stepped into the area.

“Five minutes.”

The energy shifted immediately.

People began collecting drinks and moving towards the corridor that led to the guest viewing section. Someone handed your friends the proper wristbands they would need to remain in the area, tightening each one before waving the next person forward.

Joe pushed away from the flight case.

“You’re coming with us, right?”

The question was directed at all three of you, but he looked at you when he asked it.

Your friends answered before you could.

“Yes.”

Joe smiled. “Good.”

The hallway became crowded as the group started moving. Members of the band, friends, crew, and guests filtered towards the side entrance in loose clusters. You ended up beside Joe, while your friends walked directly behind you with Javi, Teddy and Adam.

The backstage route was narrower now that equipment was being moved away from the stage. Large black cases lined one wall, forcing everyone into a single path while technicians squeezed past in the opposite direction. Radios crackled. Doors opened and closed. Someone pushed a cart through the intersection ahead, and the group had to stop until it cleared.

Joe looked back towards your friends.

“You guys good?”

They both nodded.

Then he looked at you. “Stay close. It gets annoying through here.”

“I’m capable of walking through a hallway.”

“I saw you almost fall over at the barricade.”

“That was their fault.”

Your friends immediately denied it from behind you.

The group began moving again. A pair of crew members hurried around the corner carrying equipment, forcing you to step closer to the wall. Joe waited until they passed, then placed his arm across your shoulders and guided you forward with him.

The gesture was so natural that for the first few steps, you barely processed it.

His hand rested loosely near your upper arm, not pulling you against him but keeping you beside him as the hallway narrowed. He continued talking to someone ahead, apparently unconcerned by what he had done. You looked up at him once. He felt the movement and glanced down.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You looked at me.”

“I’m allowed to look at you.”

“That’s true.”

His arm remained where it was.

Behind you, one of your friends made a tiny strangled sound.

You turned your head just enough to see both of them attempting to hold in laughter. Javi noticed too.

“You two okay?” he asked.

“Perfect,” one replied too quickly.

The other pressed her lips together and nodded.

Joe glanced back, then at you. “They’re not subtle.”

“They never are.”

“We can hear you,” your friend said.

“That was intentional.”

The passage opened into a wider platform leading towards the VIP viewing area. The sound of the audience became enormous again as soon as the final door opened. Blue and violet light spilled across the walkway, and the first waves of the intro pulsed through the venue floor.

Joe kept his arm around your shoulders as he led you onto the platform.

The view was unreal.

From the guest section, the circular stage seemed to float in the centre of the crowd. Thousands of people surrounded it, phone screens scattered through the darkness like small lights. The production had transformed completely during the changeover. Screens curved around the centre structure, colour moving across them in slow, liquid patterns while smoke drifted through the beams above.

Your friends stopped behind you.

“Oh my God,” one whispered, even though the music was already too loud for anyone outside your group to hear.

Joe finally lifted his arm so he could reach towards a table set against the side of the platform. He picked up two beers, checked one briefly, and offered it to you.

“You good with this?”

You took it. “Yeah.”

He collected another for himself and leaned beside you against the rail.

The rest of Post Animal spread across the section. Your friends stayed close at first, but within a few minutes Javi and the others had drawn them into the group. They were still visibly nervous, especially whenever anyone asked them a direct question, but the music made conversation less important. Everyone was there to watch.

The lights dropped completely.

The audience roared.

Tame Impala stepped onto the stage.

For the first song, you barely looked anywhere else.

That was part of what Joe remembered most clearly about you from the first concert. You did not spend the show watching to see whether he was watching. Once the music began, your attention belonged to it completely. You knew when the synth would change, when the drums would enter, when the entire crowd would shout a lyric together. Your excitement was not careful or performed. It moved through you too quickly to hide.

Joe watched the stage too, but every so often he looked at you.

You took a sip of beer and caught him during one of those glances.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You looked at me.”

“I’m allowed to look at you.”

You stared at him for a second before recognising your own words.

“That was terrible.”

“It worked when you said it.”

“No, it didn’t.”

He laughed and turned back towards the stage.

The first few songs passed quickly. You and Joe talked in pieces whenever the music allowed it, leaning close to hear one another and giving up entirely when it did not. Sometimes he pointed out something in the live arrangement that was different from the recorded version. Sometimes you reacted before he could, already recognising the change.

Your friends relaxed more with each song.

One danced beside Teddy and Wes, laughing whenever she caught you looking at her. The other kept moving between the rail and the group behind you, unable to decide whether she wanted to focus on the stage or watch what was happening between you and Joe.

During a slower transition, Joe rested his forearms against the barrier and took a drink. You stood beside him, close enough that your shoulders touched each time either of you moved.

The contact stopped feeling accidental after the third time.

Neither of you adjusted.

When the next song began, the entire VIP section shifted forward. Someone behind Joe bumped into him while moving past, and he steadied himself with one hand on the rail. A moment later, almost casually, he lifted the arm holding his beer and placed the other across your shoulders.

There was no announcement in the gesture.

He did not look down first or ask a question with his expression. He simply settled his arm around you while taking another sip, his attention still fixed on the stage as though this had been the obvious position for both of you all along.

You looked up.

Joe felt it and glanced at you over the edge of his cup.

A small smile appeared.

You smiled back and returned your attention to the stage.

Behind you, your friends saw everything.

One immediately turned towards the other. They stared at each other with matching expressions of disbelief, then began laughing when they realised they had reacted at exactly the same time.

You caught them from the corner of your eye and gave them a warning look.

That only made it worse.

Javi followed their gaze towards you and Joe, then shook his head as though something he had expected was finally happening.

“What?” Joe asked him.

“Nothing.”

Joe rolled his eyes, but his arm stayed around your shoulders.

The beers disappeared faster than you noticed. Someone offered to bring another round, and your friends accepted before checking whether you wanted one. By the time the next bottles arrived, the stiffness of the first backstage conversation had fully dissolved. You were not drunk, but the warmth from the alcohol, the music, and the crowd made every decision feel easier. Joe had become more relaxed too. He laughed more freely, leaning closer whenever you spoke, occasionally tightening his arm around you when the people behind shifted.

Halfway through the set, the music changed.

You recognised the opening before most of the crowd did.

Your head snapped towards the stage, and a sound escaped you somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. The lights spread across the circular screens in a wash of colour while the first notes filled the venue.

You turned towards Joe immediately.

“This is my favourite.”

You had to say it close to his ear, but the excitement in your face would have communicated the sentence even if he had heard none of it.

Joe looked at you.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, already smiling too hard to appear remotely calm.

He smiled back.

Then, before you could turn towards the stage again, he leaned down and kissed you.

It was quick.

A soft, direct press of his mouth against yours that lasted barely more than a second, impulsive enough that neither of you had time to think through what it meant before it was already over.

Joe pulled back just far enough to see your reaction.

You stared at him.

His expression changed slightly, the confidence of the decision giving way to the realisation that he had actually done it.

For a second, everything around you continued at full volume while the space between you went completely still.

Then you smiled.

Joe’s shoulders loosened.

You turned back towards the stage, still smiling, and he laughed quietly beside you. His arm rounded and tightened around your chest, drawing you closer until your back rested against his front.

Your friends had seen the entire thing.

One had both hands over her mouth. The other stared at you with wide eyes before turning to the first and grabbing her arm. Javi looked between them and started laughing at their reaction.

You refused to look back again.

The song had started, and you were determined to experience at least part of it without your friends making silent screaming faces behind you.

That plan lasted less than a minute.

Joe leaned towards your ear. “You okay?”

You turned your head. “You kissed me.”

“I noticed.”

“And now you’re asking if I’m okay?”

“It seemed responsible.”

You laughed. “A little late.”

“Probably.”

You were close enough that the next movement required almost no distance at all. This time, when you kissed him, it was not as brief. Your hand found the side of his waist without planning to, holding lightly at his stomach as he turned towards you. The kiss remained soft, made slightly awkward by the bottles you were both still holding and the fact that thousands of people surrounded the stage below, but neither of you seemed interested in pretending the first one had been an accident.

When you separated, Joe stayed close.

“There,” you said. “Now it’s even.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“It is now.”

The rest of the show changed after that.

Not in one dramatic moment. Nothing needed to be discussed. You simply stopped leaving space between you.

During faster songs, you danced with your friends and the band, shouting lyrics and laughing whenever someone nearly spilled a drink. Joe stayed close enough that his hand kept finding your waist or your shoulder each time the group shifted. When you returned to the rail, he moved behind you, one arm resting across your middle while the other held his beer away from the people dancing around you.

You leaned back against him without thinking about it.

His chin brushed near the side of your head when he bent down to hear something you said. Sometimes he understood. Sometimes he shook his head because the music drowned you out, and you both laughed instead of trying again.

Your friends alternated between joining you and openly observing.

At one point, one of them moved beside you and shouted, “Are we going to talk about this?”

“No!”

“When are we talking about it?”

“Not during Tame Impala!”

Joe leaned closer. “What did she say?”

“She said she loves this song.”

Your friend looked offended. “That is not what I said.”

Joe laughed, and you pushed her gently back towards the others.

Several songs later, the beers and the music had made the group looser. Wes and one of your friends were arguing over a lyric. Jake was trying to convince your second friend that a particular live version was better than the studio recording. Everyone kept moving, trading places along the rail and stepping around discarded cups.

Joe remained behind you.

His arms settled around you more fully during one of the slower songs, both of you swaying with the crowd rather than properly dancing. You rested your hands over his forearms, fingers brushing his wrist whenever the rhythm changed.

He pressed another quick kiss near your temple.

You turned enough to look at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep doing things and saying nothing.”

“So do you.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s me.”

Joe laughed against your hair. “Good argument.”

You shifted until you were facing him more fully, still held loosely inside his arms. The stage lights moved across his face in changing colour, making his expression difficult to read for a second at a time. He looked happy. Not in the polished way performers looked while acknowledging a crowd, but relaxed, slightly disbelieving, and amused by how quickly the night had turned into something neither of you had expected.

You kissed him again.

Somewhere below the VIP platform, a phone camera moved.

It would have been impossible not to notice the phones.

The guest section was elevated above part of the audience, visible from several sides of the circular stage, and Joe had spent long enough being recognised in public to know exactly what happened when he stood anywhere with decent lighting and no wall between himself and a crowd. Every few minutes, another screen tilted towards the platform. Some people were filming the band watching the show. Others were clearly focused on him.

Your friends noticed too, although they were far less accustomed to it.

One of them leaned closer while Joe had his arms around you from behind.

“There are, like, ten people recording up here.”

You followed her gaze towards the audience.

She was probably exaggerating, but not by much. Several phones were visibly raised in your direction, and one person near the side barrier did not even attempt to hide the fact that the camera was zoomed in.

“I know,” you said.

Your friend stared at you. “And you’re fine?”

You glanced back at Joe. He had heard enough of the conversation to understand what she was asking, but his expression remained relaxed. There was no sudden movement to step away from you or turn his back towards the audience. He only looked down at the phones for a moment before returning his attention to the stage.

“They were filming before,” he said.

“That was before you started kissing her,” your friend replied.

Joe smiled slightly. “Fair.”

You laughed and took another sip from your drink.

The reality of it sat somewhere in the back of your mind, impossible to ignore but not strong enough to ruin the night. Joe was Joe. People recorded him walking out of buildings, standing beside stages, talking to friends, and doing absolutely nothing interesting at all. Of course they were going to record him with someone’s arms around his neck while he kissed her at a Tame Impala show.

You had known that the moment he kissed you.

So had he.

That did not mean either of you needed to perform for them, but pretending the cameras did not exist would have been pointless. Joe had already looked towards one of the phones while you were dancing, and you had seen the quick recognition in his face before he turned back to you. He knew exactly what the clip would look like once it reached the internet.

He just did not seem particularly bothered.

Your friend lowered her voice even though the music made privacy unnecessary. “People are going to lose their minds.”

“They lose their minds when an inch of his tummy is showing,” you said.

Joe laughed behind you. “That’s not completely inaccurate.”

“You’re both being way too calm.”

“I’m watching Tame Impala,” you answered. “I’m not stopping because someone has a phone.”

That seemed to satisfy her, or at least make it clear that warning you again would achieve nothing. She shook her head with a disbelieving smile and returned to the others.

Joe’s hand tightened slightly at your waist.

“You sure?” he asked near your ear.

You turned enough to look at him. “About what?”

“The cameras.”

You studied his face, wondering whether the question was really for you or whether he was giving you an easy opportunity to step away before the night became public.

“They were always going to film you.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“I know they’re there.”

“And?”

“And I’m still here.”

His eyes stayed on yours for another second.

Then he nodded.

“Okay.”

It was not an agreement about what would happen tomorrow. Neither of you knew what people would say, how widely the videos would spread, or whether strangers would manage to find your name before the night was over. It was only an agreement about the present moment. You knew you were visible. He knew you understood what that meant. Neither of you was being tricked into anything.

When you turned back towards the stage, Joe remained behind you, his arms still loosely around your middle.

A few minutes later, during another song, you looked up at him with the same bright, excited expression you had worn all night. Joe smiled, leaned down, and kissed you again without checking where the nearest phone was pointed.

Several cameras caught it.

This time, you both knew they would.

The final notes lingered through the stadium long after the band had disappeared beneath the stage.

For a few seconds, nobody moved.

Thousands of people stayed exactly where they were, almost unwilling to admit it was over. The lights slowly brightened again, conversations returning all at once as everyone began collecting bags, empty cups, and phones.

You let out a quiet laugh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a concert to last longer.”

Joe smiled beside you.

“I’ve said that after every Tame show.”

“You’ve seen them more than once.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It definitely isn’t.”

The rest of Post Animal slowly gathered around the VIP section again. Dalton stretched dramatically before walking over, pointing between you and Joe.

“So…”

Joe already knew what was coming.

“No.”

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was just gonna ask if we should pretend we’re surprised.”

One of your friends laughed into her drink.

“I don’t think anyone here is surprised.”

“Except maybe her,” Dalton nodded toward you.

You looked at him.

“I’m actually doing surprisingly well.”

“You’re hiding it.”

“I am.”

“You almost passed out when he answered you during the set.”

“That never happened.”

“Sure.”

Joe laughed quietly beside you.

“You screamed at me first.”

“I regret everything.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…No.”

Everyone laughed.

The atmosphere stayed easy after that.

No one made a big deal out of anything. Someone started talking about the setlist. Another person argued that one song should’ve been played earlier. Your friends were finally relaxed enough to jump into the conversation without whispering to each other first, and within minutes it felt less like you had been invited backstage and more like you’d simply fallen into the group’s orbit for the night.

Eventually, the venue staff began encouraging everyone toward the exits.

People had flights to catch.

Hotels to get back to.

Buses waiting outside.

Reality had a habit of returning far too quickly.

Joe looked over at you.

“So…”

“So.”

“You leaving tomorrow?”

You nodded.

“Early.”

He sighed dramatically.

“Seriously?”

“I know.”

“You’ve got terrible timing.”

“I was about to say the exact same thing.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“Guess we’re consistent.”

You looked at him for a second before speaking.

“Just… don’t lose my number this time.”

Joe let out a laugh loud enough that a couple of people nearby turned to look. “I deserve that.”

“You really do.”

“I already fixed it.”

“What?”

“I found your contact.”

You blinked.

“You did?”

“A couple weeks ago.”

“…And?”

“I figured texting you out of nowhere after months would’ve sounded insane.”

You stared at him.

“You are unbelievable.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve just said, ‘Hey.’”

“I know.”

“You made this so much harder than it needed to be.”

“I definitely did.”

You couldn’t help laughing.

“So…”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

“Let’s make sure neither of us has an excuse this time.”

You unlocked yours.

He typed in the number while standing right beside you. A second later, your phone buzzed. You looked down.

Don’t let me lose this one.

You smiled before typing back immediately.

Only if you stop breaking your phones.

His own phone vibrated almost instantly. He looked at the screen and laughed. “Deal.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

The crowd around you had already started disappearing down the corridor. Your friends were a few steps ahead, politely pretending not to watch while very obviously watching.

One of them looked back.

“We’re giving you, like… thirty more seconds.”

“You’re generous,” Joe said.

“I know.”

She grinned before pulling the other away again.

Joe looked back at you.

“I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“You better.”

“I will.”

“You said that last time.”

He winced.

“Okay… fair.”

You smiled.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He stepped a little closer.

“Guess I’ll have to prove it.”

He leaned down, stealing one last kiss before either of you could overthink it. Short. Warm. Enough to leave both of you smiling when he pulled away.

“Safe flight,” he said.

“You have a good tour.”

“I’ll try.”

You started walking backward toward your friends. After a few steps, you looked over your shoulder to make sure you weren’t about to walk into anyone. When you looked back, Joe was still standing exactly where you’d left him.

He lifted a hand.

You did the same.

Then your friends immediately surrounded you the second you reached them. One of them grabbed both of your shoulders.

“You are telling us absolutely everything the second we get in the Uber.”

“I was there,” you laughed.

“We don’t care.”

“We need a replay.”

“The director’s cut,” the other added.

You shook your head, laughing as they pulled you toward the exit. Behind you, Joe watched the three of you disappear into the crowd before finally turning in the opposite direction with the rest of the band. Neither of you noticed the phones anymore. For tonight, it didn’t matter.

Tomorrow could deal with itself.

thank you so much for reading!! 🫶 if you enjoyed it, please consider liking, reblogging or leaving a comment, it honestly means a lot and motivates me to keep writing 💗 i’m not sure yet if this is the end of backstage number or if i’ll end up writing a part three… we’ll see 👀

taglist: @mr-joel-keeny @lilacdreamrxo @helaenabugmom

i have a request that i already started writing but i have no idea how to continue it. the request is basically joe and reader meeting through his sisters and it’s supposed to be a soft launch, but i literally don’t know how to make them meet or what the actual plot of the story should be.

send me requests!! i only have two left in my inbox, and feel free to ask me anything or just tell me something too <3

anyways here is this gif of Joe that i found the other day and is now my favourite 💕:

“too much sun”

☆ joe keery x fem!reader ☆

hi !! thank you so much for the request <3 i thought this idea was so cute and perfect for summer 😭☀️

also sorry if this took a little longer than expected (this request maybe has two months 😭), english isn’t my first language and sometimes it takes me a lot of research and rewriting to make sure everything sounds right. i’m still learning so sorry if there are any mistakes or weird sentences !!

requests are open btw ♡

summary: after spending a perfect beach day with joe, you realize maybe ignoring his sunscreen reminders wasn’t your smartest idea. luckily, joe is more than happy to laugh at you a little… and take care of you after.

word count: 1.9k

warnings: fluff, beach day, established relationship, sunburn, joe being dramatic, teasing, taking care of reader, no use of y/n

You really thought you had won against the sun. Even as the heat began to prickle beneath your skin, a dull, thrumming warning you were far too stubborn to acknowledge, you held onto the delusion of victory.

That was the worst part. The arrogance of the assumption, the way you had looked at the horizon with such misplaced certainty, blind to the fact that the universe was slowly, methodically, painting you in shades of crimson.

Joe had noticed before you did. He watched you with the quiet, observant intensity that usually preceded him teasing you, his eyes tracking the way your skin was beginning to lose its natural tone and surrender to the blaze.

Of course he had. He was a creature of detail, a man who memorized your moods and your habits with the same dedication he applied to his scripts, and there was no way he would miss the slow transformation you were undergoing.

“Are you sure you’re not getting burned?” he asked, squinting slightly as he looked over at you from behind his sunglasses, his voice tinged with that casual, infuriating foresight that made him so impossible to argue with.

You looked away from your book and gave him a look, a sharp, dismissive glare meant to extinguish his concern, but it lacked the fire you needed to actually shut him up.

“Joe.” You let his name hang in the humid air, a warning for him to drop the subject before you lost your patience.

“What?” He didn’t back down, his posture relaxed, his expression innocent enough to be infuriating.

“You sound like my mom.” The accusation felt weak even as you said it, a childish shield against a truth you didn’t want to admit.

He immediately looked offended, his shoulders hiking up toward his ears in a dramatic display of hurt.

“I’m trying to keep you alive.” His tone shifted, losing the playfulness for a split second, revealing the genuine, grounding anxiety he always felt when it came to your well-being.

“It’s the sun, not a monster from the Upside Down.” You tried to laugh it off, turning back to the page, but the words felt hollow.

He rolled his eyes, but the little smile on his face gave him away. He always did that. Pretended to be annoyed when really he was just amused by you, captivated by your refusal to admit when you were wrong.

The day had been too good for either of you to care. The sun, the salt, the rhythm of the waves—it created a bubble that felt impenetrable, a sanctuary where nothing could touch you, not even the UV index.

It was one of the first actual breaks Joe had gotten in months. No filming schedule, no interviews, no flights, no waking up in different cities every week. Just the two of you, a beach towel, snacks you bought on the way there, and Joe insisting he was actually good at building sandcastles.

Which he absolutely wasn’t. His hands, usually so steady and graceful, were clumsy with the sand, his architectural vision far outpacing his actual ability to pack the grains into a structure that wouldn't immediately surrender to gravity.

“That is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” You watched the lopsided pile of sand, feeling a strange warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the sunburn.

Joe looked down at his creation, tilting his head with a critical eye.

“It has character.” He said it with such earnest conviction that it made the absurdity of the situation even better.

“It’s leaning.” It was, in fact, bowing dangerously toward the ocean, a monument to his failure.

“So?” He grinned at you, unbothered by the physics of his construction.

“So buildings aren’t supposed to lean.” You kicked a little sand toward it, watching the base crumble even further.

“Some do.” He reached out to stabilize it, but his touch only made it sag more, and the image was so ridiculous you couldn't help but smile.

“Joe, your sandcastle isn’t the Tower of Pisa.”

He laughed, looking ridiculously proud of the pile of sand that looked about three seconds away from collapsing, basking in the joy of his own incompetence.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of what?”

“My artistic vision.”

You stared at him for a second, really looked at him—the way the sun caught the light in his eyes, the way his hair was windswept—before both of you started laughing, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the beach.

Those were always your favorite moments with Joe.

Not the big ones. The ones that made headlines or defined his career.

Not the premieres or the exciting parts everyone else got to see. Those were just parts of his life, but they weren't the parts that belonged to you.

Just him being Joe.

The guy who made terrible jokes, carried all the bags even when you told him you could help, and somehow made doing absolutely nothing feel like the best thing in the world.

By the time the sun started going down, you were tired in the best way, the kind of exhaustion that settles deep in your bones after a day spent entirely in the present.

Or at least you thought you were. You didn't realize that the heat you were feeling wasn't just the lingering warmth of the afternoon.

Until you got home. The harsh, unforgiving light of the bathroom, the fluorescent sting, shattered the illusion you had been carrying all day.

The second you walked into the bathroom and saw yourself in the mirror, you froze. Your skin was a terrifying, vibrant shade of pink, the evidence of your stubbornness laid out in clear view.

“Oh no.” The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow.

Joe was in the bedroom unpacking the bag when he heard you, his footsteps quick and rhythmic as he crossed the floor.

“What happened?”

You didn’t answer, staring at your reflection in horrified silence, unable to even articulate the magnitude of your mistake.

Which immediately made him appear in the doorway, his silhouette filling the frame, his face softening with a mixture of confusion and immediate concern.

“What’s wrong?” He stepped closer, his brow furrowing as he scanned your face for the source of your distress.

You slowly turned around. The movement sent a fresh wave of stinging heat across your shoulders, a painful reminder of every hour you had spent under the sun without protection.

And the second he saw you, he tried.

He really tried.

You could see it. The struggle behind his eyes, the internal battle between the need to comfort you and the sheer, undeniable comedy of the situation.

The way he pressed his lips together, trying to force himself not to laugh, his chest heaving with the effort of holding it back.

“Don’t.” You held up a hand, your voice small, pleading for mercy.

“I didn’t say anything.” He held his hands up in surrender, though his eyes betrayed his composure.

“You’re thinking something.” It was written all over his face, in the slight twitch of his jaw and the way he couldn't quite meet your eyes.

“I’m not.” He was lying, and he knew you knew it.

“You are.”

Joe shook his head, walking closer, the space between you shrinking until he could reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear.

“I’m not laughing.”

“You literally look like you’re about to explode.” Your voice was tight, halfway between anger and resignation.

That was what finally broke him.

Not a huge laugh, but a small one escaped before he covered his mouth, the sound vibrating through the small, quiet space of the bathroom.

“Joe!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, even though he was still smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s just—”

“What?”

“You spent the entire day saying you weren’t burning.”

You crossed your arms, the movement causing a sharp, stinging protest from your skin.

“Don’t remind me.”

“And now…”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” You glared at him, but there was no real venom in it.

He looked at your shoulders, then your face, his expression turning gentle as the reality of your pain sank in.

“You’re a little red.”

“A little?” You raised an eyebrow, daring him to push it.

“Okay.” He paused, his expression turning tender, almost apologetic.

“A lot red.”

You groaned, letting your head fall back against the cool tiles of the wall.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He said it with such absolute, calm certainty that you couldn't even argue.

The annoying thing was that he was right.

You didn’t.

Especially not five minutes later when he was the one looking around the bathroom cabinets trying to find something to help, his hands moving with efficient, careful purpose.

You sat on the edge of the bed watching him search through everything with complete focus, his dedication suddenly making you feel cared for in a way that made the pain seem almost worth it.

“Joe.”

“Yeah?” He didn't turn around, still digging through the cabinet.

“It’s just a sunburn.”

“I know.”

“You’re acting like I’m dying.”

“I know you’re not dying.” He turned around, a tube of soothing cream in his hand, his expression serious and entirely centered on you.

“But you’re uncomfortable, and I can help, so let me.”

And there it was.

The thing about Joe that always got you, the core of him that existed beneath the layers of fame and the public persona.

He joked around constantly. He teased you. He could be sarcastic and ridiculous and turn the smallest situations into something funny, finding the absurdity in life even when the world was watching.

But when it mattered?

He cared.

A lot.

“Come here.” His voice was soft, an invitation that you immediately accepted.

You walked over and he carefully helped put the lotion on your shoulders, trying so hard not to press too much, his touch as light and reverent as if he were tending to a wound.

“Does that hurt?” He asked, checking your face for any sign of flinching.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because you said you weren’t burning too, and we saw how that turned out.” He couldn't resist that last dig, a small, playful smirk tugging at his lips.

You turned your head to glare at him, but the bite was gone.

The smile came back immediately, softer this time.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“I’m a little sorry.”

You shook your head, but you couldn’t stop smiling either, the physical sting of the day fading under the weight of his attention.

Later that night, the two of you ended up on the couch, a movie playing that neither of you were really paying attention to, the blue light of the screen casting long shadows across the room.

Joe looked over at you, his gaze lingering.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed to stare at my girlfriend.” The words were simple, yet they landed with a weight that made your pulse jump.

“That sounds like an excuse.”

“It is.” He didn't even try to hide the grin this time.

You rolled your eyes, but moved closer anyway, resting your head carefully against him, finding your place in the crook of his shoulder.

A few seconds passed, the quiet of the night filling the space between you.

Then—

“I told you to put on more sunscreen.”

“Joseph.” You warned him, a laugh bubbling up in your throat.

“Sorry.”

Silence.

“…But I did.”

You grabbed the pillow beside you and lightly hit him with it, the action soft and playful, a release of all the tension from the day.

And his laugh filled the whole room.

The kind of laugh that made even a sunburned, exhausted, imperfect summer night feel like something you’d want to remember forever, anchored in the simple, beautiful certainty of being with him.

thank you again for the request !! 🤍 i actually loved writing this because i feel like joe would 100% be the type of person to joke around first and then immediately do everything he can to help 😭

taglist: @mr-joel-keeny @lilacdreamrxo @helaenabugmom

“finally home”

☆ joe keery x fem!reader ☆

hi !! thank you so much for the request <3 sorry this took me a little longer than expected. i really wanted to make this one soft because dad!joe and luke moments are honestly my favorite to write 😭

also english isn’t my first language and i’m still learning, so sorry if there are any mistakes or weird sentences !! requests are open btw :)

summary: after weeks of joe being away for work, luke tries to pretend he doesn’t miss his dad as much as he actually does. but when joe finally comes home, waiting on the brownstone steps turns into the reunion they both needed.

word count: 1.5K

warnings: pure fluff, dad!joe, family moments, joe being away for work, emotional reunion, reader and joe have a son, no use of y/n

The last few weeks had felt longer than you expected.

You knew what you were getting into. You knew Joe’s job wasn’t a normal nine-to-five where he left in the morning and came back every night at the exact same time. Some months were calmer, filled with slow mornings, walks around the neighborhood, and Joe making breakfast while Luke sat on the counter telling him stories that somehow never had an ending.

Other months looked more like this.

Suitcases in the hallway, FaceTime calls before bed, different time zones, and Luke asking you every single morning if today was the day Dad came home.

It wasn’t that Luke didn’t understand the reality of the situation; in fact, sometimes you thought he understood a little too much for a four-year-old.

He knew his dad had to travel. He knew people wanted to hear him sing. He knew that every time Joe left, he always came back.

But knowing something didn’t mean he didn’t miss him, and the funny thing was, Luke was exactly like Joe about it.

He tried to pretend he was fine.

“I’m not sad,” Luke randomly announced one night, sitting in the middle of his bed while you folded some of his clothes.

You looked up from the little pile of shirts in your hands, raising your eyebrows slightly because neither of you had been talking about Joe, yet it was clearly the only thing on his mind.

“I didn’t say you were,” you replied gently.

“I know,” he shrugged, holding the stuffed animal Joe had bought him before leaving closer to his chest. “I’m just telling you.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile, because it was probably the most Joe thing he could have done—announcing he was okay before anyone even asked, like somehow convincing everyone else would convince himself too.

“Okay,” you nodded. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Luke nodded seriously, like the conversation was finished.

Except it obviously wasn’t, because less than a minute later, his little voice filled the room again.

“How many sleeps now?”

You already knew what he meant, and you didn’t need him to say Joe’s name.

“One.”

His head immediately lifted with a spark of hope.

“One?”

“One.”

“So tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

The biggest smile spread across his face before he quickly tried to hide it, looking down at his blanket instead.

“I’m not gonna cry when he comes home.”

You stopped folding and looked at him.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m four.”

You laughed softly, brushing his hair back.

“Four-year-olds can cry, you know.”

Luke thought about that for a second, like he wasn’t completely convinced.

“But Dad’s gonna know I missed him.”

Your expression softened, and you moved closer, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Buddy, Dad already knows you miss him.”

“But then he’s gonna feel bad.”

And there it was—that little piece of Joe in him again, always worried about everyone else.

“Do you wanna know a secret?” you asked.

Luke nodded.

“Dad misses you too.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean really misses you.”

Luke looked at you with wide, curious eyes.

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“More than his guitar?”

That made you laugh, because out of all the comparisons he could’ve made, of course that was the one.

“Yes, Luke. More than his guitar.”

He seemed happy and satisfied with that answer.

“Good.”

The next day, Luke was ready hours before Joe was supposed to get there, which was funny, considering every other day convincing him to get dressed felt like a full-time job.

But today was different; today he had opinions, and a lot of them.

He changed his shirt twice because the first one “wasn’t cool enough,” asked if his hair looked okay, and spent almost twenty minutes deciding where he was going to stand when Joe arrived.

By the afternoon, the two of you were sitting outside on the steps of your brownstone.

The weather was nice enough that waiting inside felt impossible, especially with Luke running to the window every thirty seconds.

So instead, you sat together on the front steps, with Luke holding one of his toy cars in his hand, though he wasn’t actually playing with it.

His eyes stayed glued to the street, watching every single person that walked by like somehow Joe was going to magically appear.

“You know staring won’t make him get here faster, right?” you teased.

Luke didn’t look away.

“It might.”

You laughed at his unwavering belief.

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Maybe you never tried.”

You smiled because that sounded exactly like something Joe would say.

For a while, the two of you just waited while the city moved around you, with cars passing and neighbors coming home.

Every few minutes, Luke would check again.

“Is that him?”

“No.”

“Now?”

“No.”

“That one?”

“That’s an old lady.”

Luke sighed, deflated.

“She kinda walked like Dad.”

You started laughing.

“She did not.”

“A little.”

“She really didn’t,” you promised.

He finally smiled, but then his expression changed.

Because this time, when a car stopped near the curb, it actually was him.

Luke went completely still after weeks of asking and the entire day of waiting.

“Mom,” he breathed out.

You smiled softly.

“Yeah?”

“That’s Dad.”

The car door opened, and a second later Joe stepped out.

He looked exhausted, the kind of tired that came from airports and hotels, but the second he looked up and saw the two of you, none of that mattered.

His whole face changed as that familiar smile appeared—the one Luke definitely inherited.

“There are my favorite people,” he called out.

Luke stood up, and for a second you thought he was going to keep his promise about not crying.

But then Joe opened his arms, and the restraint just vanished.

He ran down the steps so quickly you almost told him to be careful, but Joe was already there, dropping his bag onto the sidewalk and catching him.

“Dad!”

Joe lifted him up immediately, holding him like he weighed absolutely nothing.

“Hey, buddy.”

And then Joe went quiet, just holding him tight as tiny arms wrapped around his neck.

Joe’s expression softened, and he looked over at you for a second, silently acknowledging how hard these weeks had been for both of you.

“I missed you too,” Joe whispered before Luke even said anything.

Luke pulled back a little to look at him.

“I didn’t say it yet.”

Joe smiled.

“I know.”

“Then how did you know?”

“Because I’m your dad.”

Luke seemed to accept that answer completely.

“I missed you.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah?”

“A lot.”

“I missed you more.”

Luke immediately frowned, feeling a need to correct him.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, because I missed you every day.”

Joe smiled, pulling him closer.

“I missed you every day too.”

Luke thought about it, calculating the truth of it.

Then finally said:

“Okay. Tie.”

Joe laughed, feeling the tension of the trip melt away.

“Okay. Tie.”

You walked down the steps toward them, and Joe reached his free arm out for you without even thinking, pulling you into the center of it all.

For the first time in weeks, everything felt right again.

No phone calls, no screens, no countdowns.

Just home.

Later that night, Luke fell asleep halfway through telling Joe everything he had missed, unable to finish his stories as his eyes closed while Joe rubbed his back.

Joe looked down at him and smiled.

“He tried so hard to stay awake,” he whispered.

“He’s been excited since six in the morning.”

“Six?”

“Yep.”

Joe laughed quietly.

“That’s my fault.”

“It is.”

He looked at you, his eyes softening.

“You agreed way too fast.”

“Because it is,” you teased.

Joe smiled, but after a moment it faded slightly as he looked at his son.

You noticed immediately.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, but he couldn't hide it.

“Joe.”

He sighed, looking back at Luke.

“I hate missing this.”

You knew exactly what he meant—not just tonight, but the little moments and the normal, quiet days that made up a life.

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“He knows you always come back,” you reminded him.

Joe looked down at Luke, his thumb brushing against his son’s shoulder.

“I know.”

“And he knows you love him.”

A small smile appeared on his face when Luke, still half asleep, instinctively moved closer to him.

“Yeah?”

“Joe, he spent three weeks asking if you missed him more than your guitar.”

He laughed, genuinely touched.

“Seriously?”

“Very seriously.”

“That was a real concern of his?”

“A huge one.”

Joe shook his head, smiling as he looked at his son with pure love.

“Well…”

He kissed the top of Luke’s head.

“Not even close.”

And the house finally felt full again.

thank you so much for reading !! <3

i’m sorry if this ended up being shorter than what the request deserved, but i really wanted to focus on the little moments between joe and luke because i feel like that’s what makes their relationship so special. i hope you still liked it 🥹

taglist: @mr-joel-keeny @lilacdreamrxo @helaenabugmom

sos increíble! 🩷

this honestly means so much to me 💗 i really do love writing, even though sometimes it takes me a while because english isn’t my first language, so i have to do a lot of research just to write one one shot and make sure everything feels right 😭

and i’ll be honest, sometimes you can probably tell through my writing when i’m not doing my best (personally), because my one shots end up being shorter, and i actually don’t like making them short. i always want to give the story, the characters and the request the time they deserve, but sometimes i just don’t have the same energy.

but that’s also one of my favorite parts about writing. when i do requests i always try to add a little bit of my own style to them, and when it’s not a request it’s usually because it’s something i’ve been imagining in my head for a while and finally get to write.

I was thinking of little older luke reacting to a compilation of videos joe recorded of Luke through the years and luke noticing how in love his parents seems in every video 👀

“Lizzy’s wedding”

☆ dad!joe keery x mom!reader ☆

hi !! first of all thank you so much for the request <3 😭

quick note because i messed up: this is actually the wrong request 😭 i accidentally used the request that was supposed to be for this one on another one shot, so i’m using the one that belonged to the previous fic here instead. sorry for the confusion !! hope you still like it 🫶

summary: lizzy’s wedding turns into the perfect keery family chaos. between joe taking over the dj booth, luke taking his job as ring security way too seriously, and a night full of dancing, teasing, and family moments, you’re reminded that the loudest moments somehow always become your favorites.

word count: 1.7K

warnings: fluff, dad!joe, established relationship, family moments, wedding setting, chaotic keery family energy, sleepy toddler, no use of y/n

The late afternoon sun in Massachusetts cast a warm, golden glow over the sprawling estate where Lizzy’s wedding was taking place. It was the kind of setting that felt less like a stiff, formal event and more like a massive, overgrown family reunion, which, given the Keery clan, was exactly what it was.

You stood in the shade of a large oak tree, adjusting the strap of your dress, while Joe was busy trying to convince Luke that the "no running on the grass" rule was strictly for people who weren't in the official wedding party.

"Luke, man, you’re Ring Security," Joe said, crouching down. He adjusted the tiny, perfectly tailored tuxedo vest on the four-year-old. Luke, with his mop of bright, sun-kissed blonde hair that seemed to glow in the light, looked up at his dad with a serious expression that Joe had clearly passed down. "Security doesn't run. They patrol. Can you do a patrol walk?"

Luke squinted, then began to pace with exaggerated, heavy steps, his little heels sinking into the soft turf.

"That’s it. That’s the pro stuff," Joe whispered, winking at you.

As the ceremony moved toward the altar, the atmosphere shifted. Lizzy looked breathtaking, and even though you’d seen Joe’s family at countless holidays and dinners, seeing them all together in formal wear felt different. His sisters Kate, Caroline, and Emma were doing a final, frantic check on Lizzy’s veil, their laughter ringing out clearly in the quiet garden.

When the music started, Luke took his position with terrifying focus. He walked down the aisle, his eyes locked forward, clutching the velvet ring pillow like he was guarding a national treasure. You watched Joe, who was standing at the front, his hands clasped, a look of pure, unadulterated pride on his face. When Luke reached the end, he didn't hand the rings over immediately. He did a full 360-degree scan of the crowd, gave the groom a sharp, solemn nod, and then, satisfied with the safety of the perimeter, handed over the goods. The audible "aww" from the guests was followed by a ripple of laughter, and you saw Joe’s mom wiping a tear from her eye, looking over at you and beaming.

But the real transformation happened when the reception began. The barn had been transformed with fairy lights and wildflowers, and set up in the corner was a professional-grade DJ booth. Joe had been talking about this for months, he’d curated the playlist, practiced his transitions, and insisted that he was the only one capable of handling the "Keery family wedding vibe."

As the dinner wound down, Joe loosened his tie, kissed your cheek, and hopped behind the decks.

"Alright, everyone, if you’re not on your feet in thirty seconds, I’m playing nothing but smooth jazz for the rest of the night," Joe announced into the microphone, his voice echoing with that playful, cocky tone you loved.

The crowd erupted in cheers. He kicked things off with an infectious, upbeat track that had the entire room moving within seconds. It was a sight to behold, Joe, his hair already falling into his eyes from the intensity of the mixing, looking completely in his element. He was bobbing his head, adjusting the levels with precision, and every now and then, he’d catch your eye across the floor and flash you a grin that said ‘I told you I could do this.’

Luke, meanwhile, was living his best life. He wasn't just dancing; he was running a "security sweep" of the dance floor, zig-zagging through the legs of his aunts and uncles, occasionally stopping to drop-kick an imaginary bad guy before returning to the DJ booth to request another song from his dad.

"Dad! Can we do the one with the drums?" Luke shouted over the music.

Joe laughed, leaning over the booth to ruffle Luke’s messy blonde hair. "Coming right up, boss." He hit a button, the bass kicked in, and the crowd roared.

You spent the next hour moving between the dance floor and the bar, chatting with the family. Joe’s parents were watching him with such immense pride, occasionally giving you a wink. The family dynamic was loud, chaotic, and incredibly loving, exactly how you liked it.

Suddenly, a high-energy transition caught everyone off guard, and the dance floor became a mosh pit of uncles, bridesmaids, and cousins all jumping in unison. Joe’s sisters were front and center, screaming the lyrics to a song they all grew up with, while Joe stayed focused, keeping the energy at a fever pitch. He was sweating, his shirt was slightly untucked, and he looked happier than you’d seen him in a long time.

He caught your gaze again, and this time, he pointed to you. He grabbed the mic, "This one is for my favorite lady, and the person who keeps me sane while I try to figure out how to raise this blonde menace!" He queued up your favorite song, and the room went wild.

You joined him at the booth, laughing as he pulled you in for a quick, sweaty hug. "How am I doing, DJ Keery?" you teased.

"I’m killing it," he admitted, breathless, but with that signature twinkle in his eye. "But I think we need to turn it up even more."

He dove back into the controls, the music shifting into a high-octane remix that kept the energy from flagging for even a second. It was pure, unadulterated fun, and for a few hours, the rest of the world felt like it had completely faded away.

The night was reaching its peak. Joe was deep in the zone, his hands moving across the mixer with a practiced rhythm that made it clear he hadn't just been playing around with the playlist, he had spent weeks fine-tuning this setlist specifically for the Keery family’s chaotic, high-energy taste. He was sweating, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair, usually perfectly styled, was now a wild, gravity-defying mess that he didn't care about in the slightest.

At one point, the music dipped into a classic, nostalgic track that had the entire room singing along in a collective, off-key roar. You looked over at the VIP table where Joe’s parents were sitting; his mom was laughing so hard she was wiping tears away, and his dad was pointing at Joe, clearly telling someone nearby, "That’s my boy!"

Luke, however, had reached his own personal limit. The four-year-old had been doing laps around the dance floor for two hours straight, fueled by nothing but adrenaline and a suspicious amount of wedding cake. He eventually stumbled toward the DJ booth, dragging his small blazer behind him like a cape. He didn't say a word; he just climbed up onto the small step Joe had set up for him, leaned his head against Joe’s leg, and let out a dramatic, pint-sized yawn.

Joe paused, glancing down. He didn't stop the music, but he did drop the volume just a fraction, sliding a fader down with a smooth motion. He reached down with one hand, scooped Luke up, and settled the boy onto his hip.

"Looks like the head of security is off-duty," Joe murmured into the microphone, his voice dropping to that intimate, raspy tone that made some of the crowd let out a collective look over and laugh. He kept his other hand on the decks, deftly transitioning the song into something a bit more mellow and melodic.

He looked at you, his eyes locking onto yours with an expression that made your heart do a little flip. It was a look of pure, grounded contentment, the kind of look that said, 'We’re doing this, aren’t we?'

"Take him to the lounge for a bit?" he mouthed, gesturing toward the quieter seating area near the edge of the barn where his sister Lizzy was currently kicking off her heels.

You nodded, stepping over to take the sleeping, heavy-eyed toddler from his arms. Luke was out like a light, his head lolling against your shoulder, his blonde hair sticking to his forehead. You walked over to the quiet corner, sitting down in one of the plush armchairs. From here, you had a perfect view of the dance floor.

You watched Joe from a distance. He looked so incredibly handsome in his element, commanding the room, controlling the energy, and radiating that natural, effortless charisma. He was currently pointing at his sisters, who were trying to choreograph a synchronized dance to whatever beat he was laying down. It was messy, it was loud, and it was perfect.

When the night finally began to wind down, Joe started to weave in the final, slower tracks. He faded the music out, grabbed his gear, and practically sprinted off the stage, heading straight for you. He didn't even care about the congratulations from the guests; he just wanted to get to his family.

"Hey," he whispered, kneeling by your chair. He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers warm and slightly damp from the night's work. "You holding up okay? He didn't give you too much trouble, did he?"

"Not at all," you whispered back, looking at Luke, who was sound asleep in your arms. "He’s a little champion. And you… you were incredible. Best DJ wedding I’ve ever been to."

Joe laughed, a low, genuine sound that was just for you. He stood up and held out his arms, taking the sleeping boy from you with the ease of a man who’d done this a thousand times. He shifted Luke into a comfortable position, then offered you his free hand.

"Come on," he said, guiding you out toward the cool night air of the venue’s parking lot. "Let’s get this little monster home before he decides to wake up and start a second shift."

As you walked away from the fading sounds of the party, the quiet of the night enveloping you, you felt a deep sense of calm. Joe kept his arm tight around your shoulder, his thumb rubbing against your arm, and you knew that no matter how loud the music got or how crazy life became, you were always going to find your peace in the quiet moments between the songs.

thank you so much for reading !! <3 sorry if this is shorter than expected, i’ve been super stressed with school lately and i’m also reading a story that’s been taking up literally all my free time 😭 but i still wanted to post something and i hope you liked it ♡

also quick apology because i mixed up the requests 😭 this was actually supposed to be another one, but i accidentally used that request on a different one shot, so i’m using the one from the previous fic here. sorry for the confusion !! requests are still open btw 🫶♡

taglist: @mr-joel-keeny

Love your writing btw 🫶

“the last cut”

☆ joe keery x actress!reader ☆

hi !! thank you so much for the request 🫶 sorry this took a little bit, i’ve been really stressed with school and life lately 😭 stranger things ending always make me emotional so i loved writing this one <3 hope you enjoy the joe fluff because we all need it rn !!

summary: after almost a decade of filming stranger things, the cast gathers to watch finn film the very last scene of season five. saying goodbye to the show that changed everyone’s lives isn’t easy — especially for joe and reader, who started as an on-screen couple and somehow ended up falling in love for real along the way.

word count: 1.2k

warnings: fluff, emotional moments, stranger things s5 wrap day, established relationship, crying, cast friendship, nostalgia, speeches, joe trying to hide his feelings with jokes, no use of y/n

Everyone always told you that the last day would hurt. You believed them, obviously. How could you not?

Stranger Things wasn’t just another job. It wasn’t a movie where you spent three months with people, cried at the goodbye dinner, promised to keep in touch and slowly went back to your normal life. This had been years.

Years of growing up, changing, becoming completely different people while somehow always coming back to the same place. The same sets. The same faces.

The same inside jokes. It was the place where you met your closest friends. And somehow, without planning it at all, it was the place where you met him. Joe Keery.

Which was still funny to everyone because your characters were written to fall in love before either of you admitted there was anything happening in real life.

The cast never let you forget it.

You spent months telling everyone you were “just friends” while showing up to set together every morning, stealing each other’s food during breaks, sitting beside each other when there were twenty other empty chairs. Nobody believed you. Not Millie. Not Natalia. Not even the crew.

Apparently it was difficult to convince people you weren’t in love with someone when you looked happier every single time they walked into a room.

And now, years later, Joe was standing behind you with his arms wrapped around you while you watched the final moments of Stranger Things being filmed. No more pretending. No more “just friends”.

Everyone knew. But right now nobody was teasing either of you. Because nobody was thinking about that.

Everyone was watching Finn. The basement was almost exactly how everyone remembered it.

The little details, the memories, everything that made it feel like you had gone back in time. Except you hadn’t.

Everyone was older now. The kids who started this whole thing weren’t kids anymore.

Finn wasn’t the tiny twelve-year-old boy everyone met all those years ago. He was standing there as an adult, filming the final scene of a story that changed all of your lives. And somehow that made it worse.

You could feel Joe’s chin resting lightly against your shoulder, quieter than usual.

That’s how you knew.

Joe joked about everything.

Awkward moment?

Joke.

Sad moment?

Joke.

Anything remotely emotional?

Immediately make someone laugh.

But right now he had nothing to say. Because he knew too. This was it.

You watched silently as Finn finished the scene.

Mike Wheeler, in the basement one last time. A place where everything started.

The cameras followed him as he looked back, watching Holly playing D&D.

A new beginning. A new group of kids. A story continuing without them. And then he closed the door. Silence. Nobody moved.

For a few seconds, nobody wanted to say anything because saying something made it real. Then you heard it.

“Cut.”

The word everyone had heard thousands of times before.

Except this time it was different. Because there wasn’t another take. There wasn’t another episode. There wasn’t another season. That was the last one.

“That’s a wrap on Stranger Things.” And that was when everyone broke.

The entire room exploded into applause, but it wasn’t happy applause. Not really. It was the kind where everyone was crying at the same time.

Millie covered her face immediately as Noah hugged her. Gaten was smiling, but his eyes were completely red. Caleb was trying to hold it together. Sadie was wiping her tears before someone pulled her into a hug.

And Finn just stood there for a second. Like he was trying to understand that it was actually done.

Then the Duffer brothers walked over to him and that was enough.

Everyone joined. A giant, messy group hug of people who had spent almost a decade making something together.

You didn’t even notice you were crying until Joe turned you around. “Aw,” he said softly.

You looked up at him. “What?”

“You’re crying.”

“So are you.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Joe.”

“I’m sweating from my eyes.”

You laughed even while crying. “That was terrible.”

“I’m emotionally vulnerable right now, don’t judge my jokes.” You smiled, shaking your head.

There he was. Your Joe. Still trying. But then his smile dropped a little. Because with you, he never had to pretend.

“This is weird,” he admitted quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“I keep thinking we’re gonna come back.”

You understood exactly what he meant.

That after a few months everyone would get another script. Another call. Another season. Another reason to come home.

“I know.” Joe looked around the set. “I met you here.”

Your face softened. “I know.”

“That’s kind of insane.”

“You met everyone here.”

“No,” he said, looking back at you. “I mean I met you here.” And you knew what he meant.

Because Stranger Things gave him friends. A career. A million memories.

But it also gave him you.

⸻

Later that night, the sadness changed. Not disappeared. Just changed. The crying turned into laughing, music, old stories and everyone sharing memories from years ago.

The wrap party didn’t even feel like a party. It felt like a family sitting around refusing to leave. Then came the speeches. Which everyone knew would ruin them again.

The Duffers went first. They talked about creating this little show that nobody knew would become what it became. About watching everyone grow up. About how proud they were.

And then Finn got up. Everyone immediately started getting emotional again.

“Oh god,” Joe whispered beside you.

“What?”

“Finn talking is gonna destroy everyone.”

And he was right. Because it did. Finn talked about being a kid when this started. About meeting people who became family. About not really knowing who he would’ve become without all of this.

And by the end, half the room was crying again. Including Joe.

You looked at him. He noticed.

“Stop.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

You laughed softly and leaned into him.

A few more people talked after that. Memories. Thank yous. Stories.

Then Gaten grabbed the microphone. And that was when you got nervous. Because he looked directly at you and Joe.

“Oh no,” Joe whispered.

“What?”

“I know that face.”

You looked confused. “What face?”

“The ‘I’m about to embarrass Joe’ face.”

And he was right.

“Also,” Gaten said, smiling, “I feel like we need to mention that we didn’t just watch characters fall in love on this show.”

Everyone immediately reacted.

You covered your face. “No.”

Joe laughed. “No way.”

“We also had to painfully watch these two pretend they weren’t in love for way too long.”

Everyone laughed.

Millie immediately agreed. “It was actually annoying.” “Thank you,” Natalia added.

You looked around offended. “Everyone knew?”

The entire room answered. “Yes.”

Joe looked at you. “Told you we were obvious.”

“You denied it too!”

“I was being mysterious.”

“You were being stupid.”

“Same thing.” You laughed.

And somehow, sitting there with everyone, it didn’t feel like the end anymore. Not completely. Because the show was ending.

But everything it gave you wasn’t. The friendships. The memories. The person sitting beside you.

Those stayed. And years ago, when you walked onto set for the first time, nervous and having no idea what was coming, you never could’ve imagined that one little show would change your entire life.

You definitely never imagined you’d leave with Joe’s hand holding yours. But you did.

And that was the best part of the story.

The part that didn’t end when someone yelled cut.

and that’s it 😭😭 honestly writing this made me so emotional because saying goodbye to stranger things feels unreal. thank you so much for the request 🫶 i’m sorry if this was shorter than what you expected, but i really wanted to focus on the little moments between them and the cast because they deserve their happy ending <3 thank you for reading and for all the support, it means a lot 💗 requests are still open btw 🤍

taglist: @mr-joel-keeny

“county road twelve”

☆ gator tillman x fem!reader ☆

hi !! i actually made one similar of them on the morning after the wedding and talking about their future, but it was boring the way they stayed in bed and talked about it<3 i tried to keep him canon and not make it too soft too fast. english isn’t my first language so sorry if there are any weird sentences !!

summary: after witnessing something horrifying near Moon Lake, you call the sheriff’s office and Gator Tillman is the deputy who answers. what starts as a police statement slowly turns into months of check-ins, late-night calls, and him finally admitting he doesn’t want to see you just because of the case anymore.

word count: 6.3K

warnings: crime investigation, witness to a serious crime, mentions of a body being thrown into a lake, fear/anxiety after witnessing violence, slow burn, age gap reader is 22 and Gator is around 28, no use of y/n.

The call came in at 6:47 p.m., right when the sky over North Dakota had started turning the color of old bruises.

Gator Tillman was sitting at his desk with his boots hooked around the bottom rung of his chair, a half-finished report open in front of him and no real intention of finishing it before the end of his shift.

The office was quiet in that dead, flat way it got between calls, with the hum of the lights overhead and the low sound of Roy's voice carrying from his office as he spoke to somebody on the phone.

Gator had been listening without listening, catching only a few words here and there, enough to know his father was irritated and not enough to make it his problem yet. He had a pen in one hand, his thumb rubbing along the clip, and was staring at the same sentence for the fourth time when the front desk phone rang.

Nobody grabbed it right away.

The deputy sitting closest to reception looked up, waited a second, then glanced toward Gator like the phone had somehow become his responsibility.

Gator didn't move.

"You gonna get that?"

"You're sittin' closer."

"Your name's on the desk tonight."

"My name's on a lotta things."

The phone rang again.

The other deputy gave him a look.

Gator exhaled through his nose, pushed himself up from the chair, and walked over with the exact amount of irritation he believed the situation deserved. He picked up the receiver, tucked it between his shoulder and ear, and leaned one hand on the counter.

"Tillman County Sheriff's Office."

For a second, there was only static and breathing.

Then your voice came through.

"Hi. Um... I don't know if this is the right number."

Gator's eyes flicked toward the clock on the wall.

"That depends."

There was a small pause, like you hadn't expected that answer.

"Okay."

"What're you callin' about?"

"I think I saw something."

He reached for the notepad on the counter, though his expression stayed bored.

"You think?"

"I know that sounds stupid."

"I didn't say stupid."

"No, but you kind of sounded like it."

That made his hand stop for half a second. His eyebrows lifted slightly, more out of surprise than amusement, because most people who called the sheriff's office nervous didn't usually correct him within the first thirty seconds.

"What'd you see?"

You were quiet again, but this time it wasn't hesitation. It sounded more like you were trying to force yourself to say it out loud.

"I was driving home. I took the road by Moon Lake because there was an accident near the main highway, and I saw a truck pulled over near the water."

Gator straightened a little.

"What road?"

"County Road Twelve. The part near the lake."

He wrote it down.

"What kind of truck?"

"Dark. Maybe black or dark blue. I'm sorry, it was already getting dark."

"Keep goin'."

"I thought someone had broken down, so I slowed down a little, but then I saw another vehicle behind it. There were two men outside. Maybe three. I'm not sure."

Gator's pen stopped moving.

"And?"

Your breathing changed.

"They were carrying something."

He didn't say anything.

"It looked like..."

Your voice tightened.

"It looked like a person."

The office around him didn't actually go silent, but it felt like it did. The weather report on the little television in the corner kept going. Somebody in the back coughed. Roy's voice still moved behind the office door. But Gator's attention narrowed until there was only your voice and the quiet panic underneath it.

"Did they see you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I slowed down, but I didn't stop. One of them turned, I think, but I just kept driving."

"Where are you now?"

"About half a mile past it. I pulled over."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Stay in your car."

"I am."

"Doors locked?"

"Yes."

"Good."

You were quiet for a second. "Was I supposed to keep driving?"

"No."

"Was I supposed to go back?"

"Definitely not."

"Okay."

"You got hazards on?"

"Yes."

"Turn 'em off."

"What?"

"If they saw you, don't sit there blinkin' like a damn lighthouse."

"Oh. Right."

There was a rustle through the phone, and then a faint clicking sound as you switched them off.

"Good," he said. "Now listen. You're gonna stay where you are. You're not gonna go back to look. You're not gonna call anybody else and tell 'em what you saw. You're not gonna post about it, text about it, or decide you're curious. You're gonna sit there, keep the doors locked, and wait for us."

"I wasn't going to post about it."

"You'd be surprised."

"I'm twenty-two, not twelve."

"Congratulations."

You went quiet, and for a second Gator thought maybe he'd pushed too hard. Then, very softly, you said, "I'm scared."

Something in his face shifted before he could stop it. He looked down at the address written on the notepad.

"I know."

"I keep thinking maybe I imagined it."

"You didn't."

"You don't know that."

"People don't call this office soundin' like you sound because they imagined somethin'."

You didn't answer.

He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.

"I'm on my way."

⸻

He found your car exactly where you said it would be, pulled onto the shoulder of the road with the lights off and the engine still running. The lake was visible through a break in the trees, dark and still under the dimming sky, the kind of quiet that made everything feel farther away than it was. Gator slowed the cruiser before killing the siren. He didn't want noise out here unless he needed it. A second patrol car followed behind him, tires grinding over gravel, and he could see the shape of you inside your car before he even parked.

You stepped out when he did, and his first thought was that you were not dressed for any of this.

You weren't wearing white like some kind of signature thing. He didn't know that yet, but he could tell it wasn't practical. It looked accidental, like you had been somewhere else before this, somewhere warm and normal and lit by clean yellow lamps instead of patrol lights. A white blouse with soft sleeves, white jeans, thin jewelry catching briefly in the cruiser's headlights, and white heels that were already losing their fight against the edge of the muddy shoulder. Your hair moved a little in the wind, and one hand stayed wrapped around the strap of your bag like it was the only thing keeping you steady.

Gator shut his door and looked you over once.

Not in a nice way.

In a cop way.

Checking your hands. Your face. Your clothes. Whether you had blood on you, dirt on you, whether you looked drunk, hurt, lying, or in shock.

You looked scared.

That was all.

"You the caller?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

"Name?"

You told him.

"Age?"

"Twenty-two."

"You live around here?"

"In town."

"You drive this road a lot?"

"No. Not really."

He looked past you, toward the bend in the road.

"Show me where."

You turned, pointing with one hand toward the lake road.

"It was back there. Near the opening by the trees. I didn't stop right beside it, but I slowed down enough to see them."

Gator followed the direction of your hand, then looked back at you.

"You get out of the car at any point?"

"No."

"You touch anything?"

"No."

"You see a plate?"

"I tried, but I couldn't. It was too dark and I was... I panicked."

"At least you're honest."

Your mouth tightened, like you couldn't decide whether that was rude or comforting.

He turned to the other deputy.

"Call it in. Get Roy out here. Nobody goes near the water until we've got lights."

The deputy nodded and moved back toward his radio.

You looked toward the lake again and then quickly away, your face pale.

Gator noticed.

"You don't need to look."

"I know."

"Then don't."

You crossed your arms over yourself. The wind lifted the sleeve of your blouse and pressed it against your arm.

"I feel stupid."

"For what?"

"My shoes."

He glanced down before he could stop himself.

Your heels had sunk slightly into the wet dirt.

"Yeah, those were a choice."

You let out one tiny, disbelieving laugh, like it surprised you to have any reaction at all.

"I wasn't planning on witnessing a crime."

"No one dresses for it."

"You kind of do."

"That's a uniform."

"Still."

He almost smiled.

Almost.

Then the sound of another cruiser came from down the road, and whatever strange little second had passed between you disappeared.

The investigation took over after that.

For the next several hours, County Road Twelve stopped being a road and became a scene. More deputies arrived. Lights were set up near the lake. Tire tracks were photographed. The area near the water was blocked off, and you were moved farther back, first beside your car and then into the front passenger seat of Gator's cruiser when the wind got too cold and your hands wouldn't stop shaking. He didn't hover exactly, but every time someone came to ask you the same question in a slightly different way, he was there. Standing close enough to hear. Close enough to cut in when they pushed too fast.

"She already answered that."

The state investigator glanced at him.

"I need her to answer it again."

"And she will. Slower."

You looked at him then, surprised, but he wasn't looking at you. He kept his eyes on the investigator, jaw set, one thumb hooked in his belt like he was daring the man to make it a problem. Gator wasn't gentle. He didn't soften his voice or tell you everything was going to be okay. But when the questions started circling too close, when your voice got thinner and your fingers twisted together in your lap, he noticed.

That was worse, somehow.

Because it made you feel seen.

Not comforted.

Seen.

By the time they let you go, it was almost midnight. Someone had driven your car back to town because Gator said you weren't driving, and he said it in a tone that made arguing feel pointless. You tried anyway, mostly because you were tired and embarrassed and hated that the whole night had turned you into someone who needed help from strangers.

"I can drive myself."

"No, you can't."

"I'm fine."

"You've said 'I'm fine' four times in ten minutes. That usually means the opposite."

"I don't know you."

"You called me."

"I called the sheriff's office."

"And here I am."

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then he opened the passenger door of the cruiser.

"Get in."

You did, but only because your legs felt weak enough that pride suddenly seemed less important.

The ride back into town was quiet for the first few minutes. Gator drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road, the glow from the dashboard cutting across his face in greenish light. Without the scene around you, without other deputies and radios and questions, the reality of what had happened started pressing down harder. You looked out the window and tried not to picture the lake. Tried not to think about whether the men had seen you. Tried not to wonder if they knew your car, your face, your license plate.

Gator noticed the way you had gone still.

"You got anyone at home?"

"No."

"Roommate?"

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

You looked over.

"No."

He didn't react.

"Family nearby?"

"No. My parents are in Minnesota."

"Friends?"

"Yes."

"You call one of 'em when you get home."

"I don't want to scare them."

"Good. Scare 'em."

You looked back out the window.

"I don't like people worrying about me."

"Then tonight's gonna disappoint you."

That time, you did smile a little.

It faded fast.

"Do you think they saw me?"

Gator's hand shifted slightly on the wheel.

"I don't know."

You hated that answer, but trusted it more than a lie.

"If they did?"

"Then we deal with it."

"We?"

He glanced at you briefly.

"The department."

"Right."

Something about the way you said it made his jaw tighten.

He didn't correct you.

Not yet.

⸻

For the first two weeks, you were just the witness.

That was how Gator thought of you because it was easier than using your name. The witness from County Road Twelve. The witness with the white heels. The witness who remembered more when she was tired than most people remembered calm. The witness who apologized every time she couldn't answer something, like failing to identify a truck in the dark was a personal flaw.

The case moved slowly, then all at once, then slowly again. The body was recovered from the lake. The name came later. So did the connections, the rumors, the uncomfortable suggestion that the men involved might not be strangers passing through. In a county like that, nothing stayed fully anonymous. Somebody always knew somebody. Somebody always owed somebody money. Somebody always saw more than they wanted to admit.

You came into the station three times to give statements.

The first time, you wore jeans and a gray sweater, your hair pulled back, no heels. Gator noticed the absence and hated that he noticed.

The second time, you brought coffee for the front desk because you said you felt bad taking up so much of their time. Gator told you that was dumb. You told him he was rude. He said both things could be true.

The third time, Roy was the one asking questions.

That one went worse.

Roy Tillman had a way of making a room feel smaller without moving from his chair. He sat across from you with his hands folded and his eyes fixed on your face, speaking slowly, almost kindly, which somehow made it worse. Gator stood near the wall, arms crossed, watching you try not to shrink under the weight of it.

"You're sure there were two men?" Roy asked.

"I think so."

"Thinkin' and knowin' are different."

"I know."

"So which one is it?"

Your fingers tightened around the paper cup in your hands.

"I saw two shapes. Two people. It was dark."

Roy smiled without warmth.

"That's not what I asked."

Gator looked at his father.

"She answered."

Roy's eyes shifted to him.

Nobody spoke for a second.

Then Roy leaned back.

"Did she?"

You looked between them, confused by the tension you didn't understand.

Gator didn't look away from Roy.

"She said she saw two."

Roy held his gaze a moment longer, then returned his attention to you.

After that interview, you left the station looking paler than when you arrived. Gator found you outside near the steps, standing with your coat pulled tight around you, breathing carefully like you were trying not to cry in public. He should've let you go. Witnesses got upset. That happened. He had work to do, and you were not his responsibility beyond the case.

Instead, he followed you out.

"You good?"

You gave him a look.

"No."

"Fair."

You wiped quickly under one eye, annoyed with yourself.

"Your father is terrifying."

Gator's face did something strange. Not surprise. Not agreement. Something locked down.

"Yeah."

"I mean, I get it. He's doing his job."

Gator looked toward the parking lot.

"Sure."

You waited for more.

Nothing came.

So you nodded, embarrassed that you had expected anything else.

"I should go."

He glanced at your car.

"You okay to drive?"

"I'm not wearing heels today, so apparently I'm qualified."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"There she is."

You looked at him.

"What?"

"You get real polite when you're scared. It's annoyin'."

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

"That's the worst comfort I've ever received."

"Wasn't comfort."

"No, obviously. You wouldn't survive that."

This time, he did smile.

Small.

Brief.

Gone almost instantly.

But you saw it.

⸻

The first time he came to your house, it was because of the case.

That was what he told himself.

A truck had been found abandoned three counties over, dark blue with the plates removed and one side dented near the rear wheel. It might've been nothing. It might've been everything. Either way, Gator brought printed photos to your house on a Tuesday evening because asking you to come to the station again felt unnecessary, and because Roy had been in a mood all day, and because Gator had caught himself thinking about how you'd looked standing outside after the last interview.

He didn't like that last reason, so he ignored it.

Your house was small, rented, and warmer than he expected. Not fancy. Not spotless in a fake way. There were shoes near the door, a half-burned candle on the coffee table, a blanket thrown over the arm of the couch, and a vase of flowers on the kitchen counter that looked too alive for the middle of a North Dakota winter. It smelled faintly like vanilla, laundry detergent, and whatever perfume you wore that always seemed to stay in the air a second after you moved.

You opened the door in leggings and an oversized sweater, your hair clipped up messily, no makeup on, looking so different from the girl on the roadside that he almost forgot what he came to say.

Almost.

"Deputy Tillman."

"Gator."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You can call me Gator."

"Oh."

He held up the folder.

"Need you to look at somethin'."

"Right. Come in."

He stepped inside but didn't move far past the entryway, like entering fully would mean admitting this was something other than work. You noticed but didn't comment. Instead, you cleared space on the kitchen table, pushing aside a notebook, a tube of hand cream, and a little gold ring you'd apparently taken off and forgotten there.

Gator laid out the photos.

You leaned over them, arms crossed, expression turning serious.

For several minutes, there was no teasing. No awkwardness. Just the two of you looking at printed images of a truck that might've been connected to the worst night of your life. Your face changed when you saw the second photo. Not dramatically, but enough.

Gator saw it.

"This it?"

You stared.

"I don't know."

"Don't say yes unless you mean yes."

"I know."

"Take your time."

You did. Your eyes moved over the dent, the dark paint, the back window, the shape of the tailgate.

Finally, you shook your head.

"It could be. But I can't say for sure."

He nodded once and began collecting the photos.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I wish I remembered more."

"Memory's not a camera."

You looked at him, surprised by the almost gentle answer.

He avoided your eyes and shoved the photos back into the folder.

"People think it is. It ain't."

For some reason, that helped more than all the soft things other people had said to you since that night.

You walked him to the door, but neither of you opened it right away. Outside, snow had started falling in thin, quiet pieces, catching in the porch light. Gator looked at it, then at your driveway.

"Your tires are shit."

You frowned.

"They are not."

"They are."

"How would you know?"

"I got eyes."

"Congratulations."

"You drive on those in real snow, you're gonna end up in a ditch."

"I've been driving for years."

"Not here."

You crossed your arms.

"You always this charming?"

"Usually worse."

That made you smile, and it bothered him how quickly he wanted to see it again.

He looked away first.

"Lock the door behind me."

"I always do."

"Do it anyway."

You rolled your eyes, but when he stepped onto the porch, you stayed there until he reached his cruiser. Only when he looked back once from the driver's side did you shut the door.

He heard the lock click.

Good.

⸻

By the second month, the case was no longer on the news every night, but it was still everywhere for you.

It was in the way certain trucks made your stomach drop. It was in the way you checked your rearview mirror too often. It was in the way you stopped taking the lake road completely, even in daylight, even when it would've saved you twenty minutes. People in town had moved on because people always did. They talked about it in the grocery store with lowered voices, then bought milk and went home. They called it awful, tragic, scary, and then returned to their own lives.

You couldn't.

Gator noticed before you said anything.

He noticed because you stopped correcting him as much. You stopped making little comments when he was rude. You answered questions quickly, politely, like you were trying to be helpful enough that no one would ask you how you were doing. It irritated him in a way he didn't know what to do with.

So he started showing up.

Not constantly. Not in a way that could be questioned easily. But enough.

A follow-up question here. A document there. A warning that they might need you again. A reminder to call if you remembered anything.

Sometimes he stayed five minutes.

Sometimes twenty.

Once, forty-five, because your kitchen sink was leaking and he made the mistake of commenting on it.

"I can call the landlord," you said, standing behind him while he crouched under the cabinet.

"You could."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"Because I'm already here."

"You know that doesn't actually answer the question."

"Does for me."

You leaned against the counter, watching him tighten something with more force than necessary.

"You fix sinks too?"

"No."

"You look very confident for someone who just said no."

"That's most men."

You laughed.

He hit his shoulder lightly on the underside of the sink when he looked back at you too fast.

"Shit."

"Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"You sure?"

"Don't start."

You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling.

He saw anyway.

⸻

The night you called him, it was past one in the morning.

Gator was not supposed to be awake. He'd finished his shift hours earlier, gone home, taken off his uniform shirt, and spent the last forty minutes sitting on his couch with the television on low and a beer untouched on the table beside him. He wasn't watching anything. He was thinking about the case, about Roy, about the truck they still hadn't tied down, about the way your voice had sounded the last time he'd asked if you were sleeping okay and you'd lied straight to his face.

His phone rang. Your name lit up the screen.

He answered before the second ring. "What happened?"

There was breathing first. Then your voice, small and shaky. "There's a truck outside."

He was already standing. "Where?"

"My street. Across from the house. It's been there for ten minutes."

"You alone?"

"Yes."

"Doors locked?"

"Yes."

"Lights off?"

"Yes."

"Good. Stay away from the windows."

"I think I'm being crazy."

"Stay away from the windows."

You went quiet. "Okay."

He grabbed his keys. "I'm coming."

It took him eight minutes to get there.

He drove without lights until he turned onto your street, slowing before your house. There was a truck parked across from it, engine off, no one inside. Gator pulled in behind it, checked the plate, walked around it once, and recognized the neighbor's address on a stack of mail sitting on the passenger seat. Not connected. Not a threat. Just some guy who'd parked badly after getting home late.

He should've been annoyed.

He wasn't.

When you opened the door, you looked like you hated yourself for calling. You were wearing silk long pajamas, your hair loose and messy, face pale in the hallway light. One hand stayed on the door like you weren't sure whether you were allowed to be relieved yet.

"It was nothing," you said before he could speak.

"Looks like it."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop."

"I woke you up."

"Wasn't sleepin'."

"Still."

He looked at you for a long second. "You gonna let me in or you wanna apologize on the porch till we both freeze?"

You stepped aside.

He came in, locked the door behind himself, and checked the windows without asking. Not in a dramatic way. Just quick, practiced, quiet. When he was done, he stood in your living room and looked at you standing near the couch, arms wrapped around yourself like the first night by the road.

"It wasn't them," you said, like you needed to hear it again.

"No."

"I feel so stupid."

"You're not."

"I called you because a truck parked on a public street."

"You called because you're scared."

You looked down. "That's worse."

"No, it ain't."

The room went quiet.

You sat on the couch slowly, like your body had finally run out of adrenaline. Gator stayed standing for a while, then seemed to decide something and sat at the opposite end. Not too close. Not making it something. The television was off, the house dim except for one lamp near the window, and for several minutes neither of you said anything.

Then you whispered, "I hate that it's still happening."

He looked over.

"In my head," you said. "Like I'm still there. I'll be fine all day, and then something stupid happens and I'm back in the car again. Watching it."

Gator's face hardened, but not at you.

"Yeah."

"I don't want to be dramatic."

"You're not."

"You keep saying that."

"Because you keep bein' wrong."

You laughed once, but it broke halfway through. You covered your face quickly, embarrassed, and Gator looked away because it felt like the only decent thing to do. He wasn't good at this. He had no soft speech prepared. No clean way to talk someone down from fear. Most of what he knew about fear had been taught to him badly, by men who thought it was useful, something to push into people until they obeyed.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

He stayed.

"You don't have to sit here," you said after a while.

"I know."

"I mean it."

"So do I."

You looked at him, tired and confused.

"Why?"

Gator kept his eyes on the blank television screen. "Because I said I'd come."

"That's not the same as staying."

"No."

He leaned back slightly, jaw working once before he added, quieter, "It ain't."

You didn't ask again.

He stayed until almost three.

⸻

After that night, something changed.

Not all at once. Not in any way either of you named.

But it changed.

Gator still came by because of the case, except sometimes he forgot to bring anything case-related. You noticed. He knew you noticed. Neither of you said it. He'd show up at your door holding a folder and spend seven minutes asking about a detail before somehow ending up in your kitchen while you made tea neither of you really wanted. He'd criticize your door lock, your tires, the little glass table near your couch that he said looked like it would shatter if someone breathed wrong.

You started keeping coffee you didn't drink because he did.

He pretended not to notice.

You noticed that too.

The case kept moving in the background, darker and heavier than either of you could ignore. One suspect disappeared. Another refused to talk. The truck from the lake was finally matched to a property outside town, then to a name, then to a man everyone seemed to know but nobody wanted to discuss too loudly. You were called in again, this time to look through photos. Gator stood behind the glass while you sat at the table with an investigator, your hands folded tightly in your lap.

You didn't identify anyone. You hated yourself for it.

Gator found you afterward in the hallway, staring at the vending machine without buying anything. "You did fine."

"I did nothing."

"You looked."

"That's not enough."

"It's what they asked."

"What if he gets away?"

Gator didn't answer immediately. That scared you more than if he had lied. Then he said, "Then we keep lookin'."

You looked at him. "You always say we."

He frowned slightly. "What?"

"You say we. Like I'm part of it."

He looked uncomfortable. "You are."

"I just saw something."

"That's part of it."

You nodded slowly, then turned back toward the vending machine. "I hate this place."

"The vending machine?"

"The station."

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. It sucks."

You laughed softly. Gator looked at you for half a second longer than he should've. Then he hit the vending machine with the side of his fist, and a bag of pretzels dropped.

You stared at him. "Did you just steal from the sheriff's office vending machine?"

"No."

"You absolutely did."

"It was stuck."

"You didn't even put money in."

"Technicality."

You took the pretzels when he handed them to you, still staring. "You're a criminal."

"I'm a deputy."

"That's worse."

He smiled before he could stop himself. This time, he didn't look away fast enough to hide it.

⸻

By spring, the lake had thawed. You still didn't drive that road. Gator knew because he followed you once.

Not in a creepy way, he told himself. In a professional way. You had been called in late after another interview, and he wanted to make sure you got home. That was all. But when you took the longer route through town instead of the road by the lake, something in his chest tightened.

The case had done that to you.

He hated it.

He hated that the men responsible had taken a road from you, a lake from you, sleep from you, ease from you. He hated that you had to think before leaving work after dark. He hated that you smiled less when trucks drove by too slowly. He hated that every time you apologized for being nervous, he had to stop himself from snapping at you because the anger wasn't meant for you.

One afternoon, he found you outside the small flower shop downtown. You were holding a paper-wrapped bundle of pale yellow flowers, dressed in blue jeans, a cream sweater, and boots that were actually appropriate for the weather for once. The sight of you looking normal hit him strangely. No station. No interviews. No fear sitting visibly on your shoulders. Just you, turning at the sound of his truck and narrowing your eyes the second you recognized him.

"Are you following me?"

He got out. "No."

"You hesitated."

"I was parkin'."

"You parked across two spaces."

"It's a small lot."

"It's empty."

He looked around. It was, unfortunately, empty.

You smiled. He hated that he liked being caught.

"What're those?" he asked, nodding toward the flowers.

"Flowers."

"Yeah, I got that."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Tryin' to be polite."

You adjusted the paper around the stems. "They're for my kitchen."

"You buy yourself flowers?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I like them."

He looked at the bouquet like it was an object from another planet. "They die."

"So does everything."

His eyes flicked to you. You realized what you'd said and winced slightly.

"That sounded darker than I meant."

"No," he said, after a second. "It was funny."

You smiled again, softer this time.

He leaned against his truck, hands in his jacket pockets, and neither of you moved to leave.

For the first time, there was no excuse between you. No folder. No question. No emergency. Just a spring afternoon, a parking lot, and the strange fact that he had seen you by chance and still walked over.

You seemed to realize it at the same time.

"Did you need something?" you asked.

Gator looked at you. Then looked away. "No."

Your expression shifted, but you didn't tease him. That made it worse.

He cleared his throat. "Case is moving."

"I heard."

"Could be an arrest soon."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the flowers. "That's good."

"Yeah."

"Is it weird that I'm scared of that too?"

"No."

"Because if they arrest someone, then it's real again."

"It's been real."

"I know."

He watched a car pass slowly on the street, then looked back at you. "You want a ride home?"

"I have my car."

"I didn't ask if you had a car."

You sighed, but there was no real annoyance in it. "My flowers and I accept."

⸻

The arrest happened two weeks later.

It wasn't clean. Things like that rarely were. There were arguments, lawyers, people who suddenly didn't remember what they'd said before, and a whole new wave of rumors spreading through town before the official statement was even released. But there was an arrest, then another, and suddenly the thing that had lived like a shadow around your life had a name, a face, a court date.

You cried when Gator told you. You hated that too.

He told you in your kitchen because he didn't want you hearing it from someone else. You stood by the counter in silence while he explained what he could, leaving out what he had to, and when the words finally sank in, you covered your mouth with one hand and turned away.

Gator didn't move at first. Then he stepped closer. Not touching. Just there.

"It's over?" you asked.

"No."

You nodded because you understood. Arrests weren't endings. Trials weren't endings. Some things didn't end cleanly just because paperwork said they moved forward.

"But it's something," he added.

You nodded again, wiping your face quickly. "Sorry."

"Don't."

"I keep crying in front of you."

"Yeah."

You let out a wet laugh. "Wow. Thanks."

"I mean, I noticed."

"That's worse."

"I'm not good at this."

"No kidding."

But you were smiling a little, and he looked at you like that mattered more than it should.

A silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable. Heavy, maybe. Honest.

Gator's hand twitched once at his side, like he almost reached for you and thought better of it. You saw it. He saw you see it. For a second, neither of you pretended.

Then he looked away. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."

"I can call a friend."

"You could."

You studied his face. "Or?"

He shrugged, but the movement was stiff. "Or I stay for a while."

Your heart did something stupid and warm and badly timed. "Okay."

So he stayed.

You made dinner because your hands needed something to do. He complained that you put too much lemon on the chicken. You told him his taste buds were emotionally unavailable. He asked if that was supposed to mean something. You said yes. He said he didn't care. He ate all of it anyway.

Later, you sat on the couch with the television playing some old movie neither of you had chosen. Gator sat at the other end like he always did, but not as far as before. Your knee almost touched his thigh. Almost. The space between you felt louder than the movie.

"You know," you said eventually, "you don't have to keep checking on me after this."

"Case ain't over." He didn't look at you.

"Gator."

That made him look.

It was the first time you'd said his name like that. Not annoyed, not teasing, not scared. Just soft and direct, like you were calling him out and asking him to be honest at the same time.

He swallowed once. "What?"

"You don't have to keep pretending it's only because of the case."

The room went very still.

He could've denied it.

A few months earlier, he would have. He would've made a joke, been cruel enough to end the conversation, walked out before anything could touch him. But he had spent too many evenings in your kitchen, too many nights answering your calls, too many mornings thinking about the sound of your laugh when he was supposed to be doing literally anything else.

He was tired. Not of you. Of pretending.

"I'm not good at this," he said.

"You said that already."

"Yeah, well, it's still true."

"I'm not asking you to be perfect."

"Good. 'Cause that'd be stupid."

You smiled.

He looked down at his hands, then back at you. "You busy Friday?"

Your chest tightened. "Why?"

His jaw shifted. "There's a diner."

"The diner you hate?"

"I don't hate it."

"And you want to take me there?"

He gave you a look. "I'm tryin' to ask you out, so maybe stop makin' it harder."

You stared at him.

Then your whole expression changed, the surprise melting into something warmer, brighter, almost disbelieving. "Asking me out?" you repeated.

He looked deeply uncomfortable. "Yeah."

"As in, not deputy and witness?"

"No."

"As in, a date?"

"Jesus Christ, yes, a date."

You smiled so hard you had to look down.

Gator watched you, tense in that way he got when something mattered and he didn't want anyone to know.

Then you looked back at him. "Friday works."

His shoulders dropped just slightly. "Good."

"But not that diner."

He frowned. "What's wrong with the diner?"

"You hate the coffee."

"I can drink bad coffee."

"That's not romantic."

"I didn't say romantic."

"You asked me on a date. That's automatically at least a little romantic."

He looked like he regretted everything. You laughed, and this time the sound filled the room without breaking halfway through.

Gator stared at you for a second. Then, quieter, almost too quiet, he said, "Fine."

"Fine?"

"We'll go somewhere with better coffee."

You smiled. "Thank you."

He leaned back into the couch, still stiff, still awkward, still completely himself. "Don't make it a whole thing."

"I'm absolutely making it a whole thing."

"Of course you are."

And for the first time in months, when the silence came after, it didn't feel like fear.

It felt like something starting.

“after the end”

☆ steve harrington x fem!reader ☆

hi !! this is an old one so because it irritates me in my drafts, here you go 😭 english isn’t my first language and i’m still learning, so sorry if there are any mistakes or weird sentences <3 requests are open btw !!

summary: after the gates tear Hawkins apart, you return home from college only to find yourself volunteering at the high school shelter. what starts as sorting donations and reading stories to frightened kids slowly turns into something neither you nor Steve Harrington expected.

word count: 2.8k

warnings: post season 4, strangers to friends, slow burn, fluff, light angst, disaster relief setting, mutual pining, only one use of y/n.

The Hawkins High School gymnasium was a sea of makeshift cots, donated blankets, and the low, constant hum of displaced families trying to process the absolute insanity that had leveled their town. It was chaotic, hot, and exhausting.

Steve Harrington was currently trying to wrestle a massive box of canned goods onto a table when he felt someone nudge his elbow.

"You're going to throw your back out if you keep lifting with your spine like that," a voice said. It was calm, steady, and utterly foreign to him.

Steve straightened up, pushing his hair back with a groan. He turned to find you standing there, holding a clipboard and looking at the chaotic gym with a mix of determination and genuine sadness. He frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to place your face. He knew almost everyone in Hawkins, especially after the last few months, but you were definitely new.

"Uh, sorry," Steve said, his "babysitter" instincts kicking in, automatically scanning the area to make sure you weren't one of the kids he needed to protect. "Do I... do I know you? I feel like I'd remember."

You gave him a small, tired smile. "No, you don't know me. I'm not from here. Not exactly."

Steve blinked, leaning against the table, his guard lowering just a fraction. "Right. Okay. Tourist? Because, no offense, this is probably the worst time in history to visit Hawkins."

You let out a soft, short laugh that sounded surprisingly light amidst the gloom. "I'm not a tourist. My parents live on the edge of town. I was away at university when the news broke, the earthquakes, the... whatever everyone is calling it. When I saw the footage on the national news, I just couldn't sit still."

You looked around the gym, your expression softening. "I didn't know what I could do to help, so I just drove. I figured they needed extra hands."

Steve stared at you, genuinely impressed. Most people were trying to leave Hawkins, not drive into the heart of a disaster zone. He felt a weird, protective flicker in his chest, not for a kid this time, but for someone who had just walked into the fire out of pure, unadulterated kindness.

"That's... that's actually really brave," Steve said, his voice losing its usual sarcastic edge. "Or crazy. Maybe a bit of both."

"Probably both," you admitted, finally meeting his eyes. "I'm (Your Name)."

"Steve," he replied, offering a hand. When you took it, he didn't pull away immediately. Your grip was firm, despite how tired you looked. "Steve Harrington. And, look, since you're here... we're drowning in supplies over by the east entrance. If you're not scared off by the smell of communal gym socks, I could use a partner."

You looked at the direction he pointed, then back at him. That lopsided, charming grin that Steve was famous for started to tug at the corners of his mouth—the one he usually used to defuse tension.

"I think I can handle gym socks," you said.

"Great," Steve said, his posture relaxing for the first time all day. He picked up a box, but this time, he made sure you were walking beside him. "Just so you know, you're officially the most interesting person I've met in this gym. Everyone else is just complaining about the lack of decent coffee."

You laughed, and for a few minutes, as you moved through the rows of cots, the weight of the Upside Down, the scars, and the impending dread felt a little easier to carry. You hadn't just come to help the town; without even realizing it, you had walked right into Steve Harrington's life at exactly the moment he needed a reason to look at something other than the darkness.

"So," Steve said, keeping pace with you. "Since we're going to be working this shift together... tell me you didn't bring any of that weird, healthy food that Dustin is always trying to get me to eat."

You rolled your eyes, a smile playing on your lips. "I brought actual snacks, Steve. I promise."

"Perfect," he said, and for the first time in a long time, Steve felt like he wasn't just surviving. He was living.

The air inside the Hawkins High School gym was stale, filled with the hum of tired families and the occasional cry of a child. Steve was standing behind the main supply table, arms crossed, trying to look busy while his gaze kept drifting toward the far corner of the room.

You were sitting on a thin, folded mat, completely surrounded by a group of kids. You were reading from a book, your voice low and rhythmic, and the children were hanging on every word. You were not a local, just someone who had heard the news and driven down to help, and it was that selfless, quiet dedication that had completely captured Steve's attention.

Robin, who was standing next to him organizing a stack of canned corn, followed his line of sight. She watched for a few seconds, seeing you gently fix a child's blanket, and then she let out a sharp, knowing exhale through her nose.

"Wow," she muttered, not even trying to hide the sarcasm in her voice. "I think your eyes are actually popping out of your head, Harrington. It is kind of embarrassing to watch."

Steve stiffened, immediately trying to look like he was intently studying the expiration date on a box of crackers. "I was just checking to make sure those kids were not causing any trouble," he defended, his voice slightly higher than usual. "It is my job to keep an eye on the perimeter."

Robin rolled her eyes so hard she almost lost her balance. "The perimeter? Please. You have been staring at her for twenty minutes like she is the only person in the entire zip code. It is the exact same look you had when you were obsessed with Nancy, just without the panicked sweating."

Steve turned to glare at her, his cheeks turning a bright, unmistakable shade of red. "I do not have that look. I am just impressed, okay? Most people run away from this place. She drove into a disaster zone to read stories to kids she does not even know. It is... it is pretty incredible."

Robin softened, her expression shifting from teasing to something more genuinely observant. "She really is, isn't she? You should go over there. It is not like she is going to bite you."

Steve looked back toward you. You were laughing at something one of the children had whispered, and your smile was so bright it felt like a beacon in the dreary, dimly lit gym. He felt a sudden surge of courage, mixed with that familiar, nervous flutter in his chest.

"Maybe I will," he said, smoothing down his hair in a quick, subconscious motion.

"Go," Robin nudged his arm with her elbow, her smile encouraging. "And try to be charming, not weird. You have a lot of practice being weird, so try to mix it up today."

Steve did not bother responding, already stepping out from behind the table. He wove his way through the cots, his heart rate picking up with every step he took toward you. As he approached, you looked up from your book, and your face brightened the moment you saw him.

"Hey," you said, pausing your reading so the kids could settle. "I was wondering when you would come over to check on the supplies over here."

Steve smiled, the genuine, lopsided grin that had served him so well over the years. "I think the supplies are in excellent hands," he replied, his voice dropping into that relaxed, intimate tone he saved just for you. "But I was wondering if you might need a break. I know a place that has actual coffee, not the sludge they are serving in the cafeteria."

You laughed, closing your book and standing up to meet him. "I think that sounds like a very good plan, Steve Harrington."

They turned and began walking away from the corner, leaving the noise of the gym behind. Robin watched them go, a small, satisfied smile on her face, knowing that for at least one of them, the chaos of the last few days had just become a little bit easier to bear.

The cool air of the hallway hit you both as you stepped out of the gymnasium. Steve didn't say much, leading the way to the small, cramped break room near the back entrance. He pushed the door open, gesturing for you to enter first.

He clicked on the light, revealing a small table and a coffee machine that had clearly seen better days. He moved with a practiced ease, grabbing two styrofoam cups and starting the brewing process, his movements slightly awkward as if he were trying to figure out the right way to act.

"So," he started, leaning against the counter while he watched the machine sputter. "Your parents are okay? I know a lot of people have been struggling to get through on the lines."

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him. "They're safe. The house is still standing. They were the ones who told me to get here safely, though I think they were mostly just relieved I wasn't around when the ground started breaking apart."

Steve nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. "Yeah. I get that. My parents... well, let's just say we aren't exactly the 'call home every day' type. But I've got people here." He gestured toward the gym, toward Robin and the kids. "They are my people. I just try to make sure they aren't left alone in the dark."

You felt a soft smile tug at your lips. "You have done a lot for them, Steve. It shows."

He looked down at his hands, a faint, self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. "I don't know about that. It's just... it is a lot of weight to carry, and lately, it feels like I am just running on autopilot."

The coffee machine gave a final hiss, and he poured two cups, handing one to you. The steam rose between you, and the silence that followed felt less like a heavy burden and more like a pause. Steve seemed to be debating with himself, his eyes darting to yours and then quickly looking away.

"I just meant," he started, his voice a bit more hesitant now, as if he were choosing his words carefully. "It is rare to see someone just walk into this mess to help. Most people keep their distance. I think... I think the kids appreciate having someone new to talk to. And it is nice, you know, to have someone else around who isn't just looking at the ground all day."

You took a sip of the coffee, nodding slowly. "I'm glad I could help. Even if it is just for a few days."

Steve shifted his weight, his usual confidence replaced by a subtle, honest uncertainty. "Right. A few days. Well, that's better than nothing."

He hesitated, then looked at you again, this time holding your gaze a little longer. "I am not going to ask you to stay or anything, I know you have a life back at school, but if you are still around tomorrow... I wouldn't mind having another pair of hands at the supply table. You are surprisingly good at this, considering you are a total stranger."

You laughed softly, finding his guarded, slightly awkward way of opening up much more endearing than a grand confession. "I think I can manage that, Steve Harrington."

He chuckled, a short, relieved sound. "Great. Well, let's get back before Robin starts accusing me of desertion."

He held the door open for you, and as you walked back toward the gym, he didn't try to force a deeper connection. He just walked beside you, a comfortable distance between you, both of you navigating the quiet hallway. It was just a small, tentative start, but as you looked at him, you realized that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly what he needed.

The walk back to the gymnasium was quiet, but it wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of the disaster zone. It was something softer, a tentative space between two people who were both trying to find their footing in a world that kept shifting under their feet.

As you pushed the double doors open, the noise of the gym rushed out to meet you again. It was still chaotic, but the familiar sight of Robin frantically trying to organize a stack of misplaced winter coats made you smile. She spotted you and Steve instantly, her eyes narrowing with a playful, sharp intensity.

"Oh, look who decided to grace us with their presence," Robin called out, not missing a beat as she tossed a heavy wool blanket onto a pile. "Did you two manage to find any actual coffee, or did you just get lost in the hallway?"

Steve cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with that classic, slightly sheepish expression he wore whenever he was caught off guard. "The coffee machine is practically a relic, Robin. We had to wait for it to stop making that weird grinding noise."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his transparent attempt to sound nonchalant. "He is telling the truth. It took a while to convince it to produce anything drinkable."

Robin looked from Steve to you, her expression shifting into a knowing smirk that clearly suggested she didn't believe a word of it. She grabbed a clipboard and shoved it toward you, her tone shifting back to business. "Fine, whatever. I am choosing to believe you because I am currently being buried alive by these donations. We have a shipment of water coming in from the next town over, and I need someone with actual organizational skills to help me categorize it."

Steve stepped forward, taking a box from her hands. "I can take care of the water. You two focus on the clothes."

He gave you a quick, almost imperceptible nod before walking toward the east entrance. You watched him go for a second, noticing how his shoulders seemed a bit more relaxed than they had been earlier that day.

"So," Robin said, leaning in close while she began folding a sweater. Her voice was low, teasing, and impossible to ignore. "He actually talked to you without tripping over his own feet? That is a new record for him."

You laughed, shaking your head. "He was actually pretty normal, Robin. Just tired."

"Tired is his default setting," she countered with a grin. "But he is usually more... guarded. He puts up a wall. It is a defense mechanism from all the stuff we have been through. Seeing him open up to someone new is, well, let's just say it is a nice change of pace."

You felt a little flush rise to your cheeks, but you kept your focus on the blankets. "He seems like a good guy. He is just trying to look out for everyone."

"He is," Robin agreed, her tone turning suddenly sincere. "He cares too much, honestly. Sometimes it is a problem. But today, I think he just needed to talk to someone who didn't know the whole story. Someone who just saw him as... well, just him."

The rest of the shift passed in a blur of activity. Every time you looked across the gym, you would catch Steve's eye. He wouldn't do anything dramatic—he would just give you a small, simple nod, or a brief, lopsided smile, acknowledging that you were both there, navigating the same strange night.

When the lights were finally dimmed for the night and the families began to settle onto their cots, you found yourself near the exit, gathering your bag. Steve was nearby, finishing his last round of checking the perimeter. He stopped when he saw you, his pace slowing until he stood right in front of you.

"Hey," he said, his voice quiet against the ambient snoring and shuffling of the gym. "You heading out for the night?"

"Yeah," you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "I should probably head back to my parents' place. Get some sleep."

Steve nodded, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. There was a pause, a small gap in the conversation where he seemed to be debating if he should say anything more. "Right. Sleep. Good idea."

He looked down at his boots, then back up at you. "Look, tomorrow is going to be another long day. If you are coming back... I will be here. Starting around seven."

"I'll be there," you promised.

He smiled, and this time, it felt like the wall Robin had mentioned was completely gone. It was just a quiet, simple connection between two people in the middle of a broken town. "Good. See you in the morning, then."

"See you, Steve."

As you walked out into the cool night air of Hawkins, the weight of the day felt a little lighter. You weren't sure where this was going, or what the future held for this strange town, but as you looked up at the stars, you felt a flicker of something you hadn't expected to find in the wreckage: hope.

“the home videos”

☆ joe keery x fem!reader ☆

hi!! thank you so much for this request 🤍 i absolutely loved the idea. i’m really sorry i couldn’t do it the way you deserved. i know it’s pretty short, but i did the best i could. i really hope you still enjoy it <3

summary: sixteen-year-old Luke finds an old hard drive filled with family videos, only to realize his dad somehow always ends up filming his mom instead.

word count: 1.8k

warnings: domestic fluff, family dynamics, future setting, light humor, emotional themes, no use of y/n.

The folder had been sitting in the same desk drawer for years.

Not because anyone had forgotten about it.

Quite the opposite.

Joe knew exactly where it was.

He’d put it there himself one Sunday afternoon when Luke was seven, after finally transferring thousands of videos off old memory cards and cameras onto a solid-state drive that was supposed to be “safer.” He had labeled it with nothing more than a small piece of white tape.

HOME.

No dates.

No names.

Just one word.

Simple enough that he’d never have to think about changing it.

After that, life kept moving.

Luke started middle school. Joe’s work became busier. You switched jobs. Birthdays blurred into holidays, holidays into summers, summers into another school year before any of you had the chance to notice how quickly they were disappearing.

Every once in a while Joe would plug the drive into his computer to add another folder.

2034.

2035.

2036.

He never watched the old videos.

He just added new ones.

Closed the folder.

Put the drive back.

Some memories were easier to keep than revisit.

⸻

By the time Luke turned sixteen, the house had changed in all the ordinary ways families never noticed while they were living through them.

The growth chart on the laundry room wall had stopped climbing months ago.

His shoes no longer fit in the little basket by the front door.

The refrigerator was suddenly impossible to keep full.

His voice had become so familiar that neither you nor Joe could remember what it had sounded like when he was little.

Sometimes you’d hear him laughing upstairs while he was on the phone with his friends and it would catch you off guard.

There was still something unmistakably little-boy about that laugh.

Everything else had grown up.

⸻

Friday nights survived somehow.

Not because anyone insisted on them.

Luke could have gone out if he’d wanted to.

Sometimes he did.

Sometimes his friends invited him somewhere and he disappeared for the evening with a quick, “I’ll be back later.”

Other Fridays, like tonight, he wandered downstairs in sweatpants and an old hoodie he’d stolen from Joe years ago and never given back.

He walked into the kitchen without saying much, opened the refrigerator, looked inside for a few seconds as though expecting new food to appear by itself, then closed it again.

“You looking for something?”

He shrugged.

“Not really.”

You smiled.

“Hungry?”

“I think so.”

“You don’t know?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

He grabbed an apple instead.

Joe looked up from where he was sitting at the island with his laptop.

“You hated apples until you were like twelve.”

“I know.”

“You used to cry if your mom cut one for you.”

“I was four.”

“You were dramatic.”

Luke took a bite before answering.

“I learned from the best.”

Joe only smiled to himself before going back to whatever he was reading.

The conversation ended there.

Not awkwardly.

Just… naturally.

After sixteen years together, none of you felt the need to keep every silence filled.

⸻

Later that night the three of you ended up in the living room without ever deciding to.

It happened the way it usually did.

Someone sat down first.

Someone else followed.

Eventually everyone was there.

The television played quietly in the background while you folded laundry from the basket beside the couch.

Joe was scrolling through something on his laptop.

Luke lay stretched across the opposite end of the sectional, one foot hanging over the armrest as he absentmindedly bounced a tennis ball toward the ceiling and caught it again.

Neither movie nor conversation had really started yet.

It was comfortable.

Luke caught the ball one last time before sitting up.

“I’m bored.”

Joe didn’t look away from the screen.

“That’s probably healthy.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means maybe don’t fix it immediately.”

Luke rolled his eyes, set the ball aside and wandered toward the built-in shelves beside the television.

There wasn’t much there anymore.

Old books.

Board games.

Photo albums.

Boxes neither of you had opened in years.

He crouched, sliding one storage bin out just enough to see behind it.

Something small caught his attention.

A black metal case.

No bigger than the palm of his hand.

He pulled it out.

“What’s this?”

Joe answered automatically.

“No idea.”

Luke turned it over.

There was a faded strip of white tape across the front.

HOME.

Nothing else.

He frowned.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this.”

Joe looked up.

His eyes landed on the drive.

For a second…

Nothing.

Then something in his expression changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that you noticed.

“Oh.”

He closed his laptop.

“I forgot that was there.”

Luke walked back toward the couch, holding the drive carefully between two fingers.

“What is it?”

Joe took it from him.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly over the label, rubbing across the tape as though he expected the letters to come off after all these years.

“…Everything.”

Luke laughed softly.

“What does that even mean?”

Joe looked at the drive for another moment before answering.

“Our videos.”

“What videos?”

“The family ones.”

Luke frowned.

“We have family videos?”

That made Joe finally look at him.

For the first time that evening, he seemed genuinely surprised.

“I thought you’d seen them.”

Luke shook his head.

“I’ve seen, like… birthday videos. The ones Grandma always puts on.”

“No.”

Joe smiled faintly.

“I mean all of them.”

He stood, walked to the television and plugged the drive into the media hub underneath.

A folder appeared on the screen.

HOME

Joe clicked it.

The television filled with folders.

2022

2023

2024

2025

…

The list kept going.

Year after year.

Until—

2038

Luke stared at the screen.

“There are…”

He counted silently for a second.

“…Thousands.”

Joe nodded.

“Probably.”

“You recorded all of this?”

Another quiet nod.

“I liked having the camera around.”

Luke looked back toward the television.

Each folder contained dozens of files.

Some had names.

Christmas Morning

Beach

First Day of School

Others were painfully ordinary.

Tuesday

Backyard

Breakfast

Rain

He looked at Joe again.

“You filmed… breakfast?”

Joe smiled almost to himself.

“Apparently.”

Luke didn’t laugh.

Instead, he sat back down on the couch, his eyes still fixed on the screen.

He hadn’t expected this.

He’d expected a handful of birthday videos.

Not…

A childhood.

Almost sixteen years of one.

Joe clicked on the first folder.

2022.

Rows of tiny thumbnails appeared across the screen.

Your face.

Hospital lights.

A newborn wrapped in blankets.

A tiny hand no bigger than Joe’s thumb.

Neither of you spoke.

Joe rested one hand on the remote.

For the first time all evening…

He hesitated.

“I haven’t watched these in a long time.”

And before anyone said another word, he pressed play.

Joe didn’t say anything after pressing play.

The room seemed quieter than it had a second earlier, as though all three of you had unconsciously leaned a little closer to the television. The soft hum of the air conditioner was suddenly louder than before, rain tapping gently against the windows while the loading circle spun for a few seconds before disappearing. Nobody reached for the popcorn anymore. Luke had forgotten the bowl beside him, one hand resting loosely against the cushion as he watched the screen come to life.

The first image shook violently before it found focus. Whoever had been holding the camera clearly hadn’t known what they were doing yet. The picture tilted toward the ceiling of a hospital room, then down toward the floor, then back up again. A nurse crossed in front of the lens, laughing quietly at something someone off camera had said. For a second there was nothing but bright white light flooding the image before it finally settled.

You.

You were asleep.

Your hair was a mess against the hospital pillow, one hand resting protectively over the tiny bundle sleeping against your chest. The room was dark except for the afternoon sun slipping through the blinds, painting thin golden lines across the blanket wrapped around your newborn son. Neither of you moved. The only sound came from the faint breathing picked up by the camera microphone.

Joe’s voice broke the silence.

“So tiny.”

It sounded younger.

Softer.

Almost uncertain.

There was a nervous laugh under his breath, the kind people let out when they don’t quite know what to do with the enormity of what they’re feeling.

“I still can’t believe you’re here.”

The words weren’t directed at the camera.

They weren’t even directed at Luke.

They were almost whispered to himself.

The recording continued for nearly a minute without anything happening at all. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Joe simply stood there, filming the two of you sleeping together as though he were afraid the moment might disappear if he looked away for even a second.

Luke frowned ever so slightly.

“I thought this was the day I was born.”

Joe didn’t take his eyes off the television.

“It was.”

“But…”

Luke hesitated, searching for the right words.

“…I’m barely in it.”

Joe smiled faintly.

“You were asleep.”

“So was Mom.”

Another small smile.

“Yeah.”

Nothing else.

No explanation.

The video kept playing.

Eventually, hospital sheets rustled softly as you shifted in your sleep. Your eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, until you noticed the camera pointed toward you.

You looked tired.

Not the kind of tired that came from missing a night’s sleep.

The kind that settled into your whole body after hours of labor.

Even then, the first thing you did wasn’t look at yourself.

You looked down.

Your hand instinctively adjusted the tiny blanket wrapped around Luke before gently brushing your fingertips across his cheek.

Only after making sure he was comfortable did you finally glance toward Joe.

“You’ve been recording this whole time?”

Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

Joe laughed quietly behind the camera.

“…Maybe.”

“You were supposed to be sleeping.”

“I tried.”

“You lasted, what…”

You looked toward the clock on the wall.

“…Twenty minutes?”

“I got bored.”

“You got bored?”

“I wanted to remember.”

You smiled.

Not a big smile.

Just one that appeared without you realizing it had.

The kind that only happened when you’d been with someone long enough to understand exactly what they meant before they finished saying it.

The camera didn’t move.

It stayed on your face while you looked back down at Luke, gently smoothing the blanket over his tiny shoulders.

Another thirty seconds passed.

Then forty.

Luke glanced sideways toward Joe.

He hadn’t noticed it the first time.

Mostly because nothing about it had seemed strange.

But now…

Now he realized something.

His father wasn’t filming the baby.

Not anymore.

The baby had slipped almost completely out of frame.

The camera was resting on you.

Not dramatically.

Not like Joe had consciously decided to zoom in.

It was almost… instinctive.

As if wherever you were in the room, the lens naturally drifted until it found you.

Luke didn’t say anything.

It could’ve been coincidence.

The first video wasn’t enough to mean anything.

He leaned back against the couch again, folding one arm across his stomach while the recording faded slowly to black.

Another file appeared automatically.

September 2022.

Joe didn’t touch the remote.

He simply let it continue.

Thank you for asking!!! my favs are:

Saltwater kisses: just because it was my first domestic one shot and that was literally why i made this account, so it has a special place in my heart

may eleventh: also has a very special place in my heart because i did it for my birthday, and i LOVE before fame Keery. He’s my favourite.

Tour videos: well you already may know that i am Argentinian and i watched Joe when he came here, so making this was really sweet and easy for me and i loved it.

safe home: i don’t know it’s just something about those text messages that reader and gator shared that 🫠🫠. Also i LOVEE girly reader. i’ve been trying to write for this family for like a week but they are all like very very short ones and i prefer posting long ones.

beautiful boy: i am just in love with Luke and this one shot is very special i feel like. Maybe the song choices were a bit overrated but i wrote that in a few minutes so i didn’t have time to think. but they are very special songs to me also.