#actor au

“And when I’m back in Chicago, I feel it… ‘nother version of me I was in it—”

You’re both singing and calling it singing is generous. It’s loud. It’s off-key. It’s reckless. You feel like you’re mid-encore at a sold-out stadium, lights blazing, crowd feral, sweat dripping, voice shredding in the best possible way.

Joe, meanwhile, is already losing the war against oxygen.

You don’t even notice him anymore. You’re gone. Fully possessed. Eyes shining like you’ve transcended reality, hand flying up as if there is a spotlight tracking you, as if thousands of people are screaming your name instead of a very real room full of witnesses watching this spiral.

“OOOOOOHHHH—” you belt, voice cracking gloriously, “I WAVE GOODBYE TO THE EEEEEEEND—”

Eyes slammed shut. Fist to your chest. You pitch forward dramatically, committing fully to the bit—

—and slam straight into Joe.

There’s a split second of pure chaos. You feel it before you see it: his body stiffening in startled panic, the sharp inhale, the oh shit reflex firing instantly. His arms fly out and—somehow—catch you.

Catch secured.

He barely keeps you upright, laughter tearing out of him in broken, breathless bursts as you completely lose it against his side.

“—the end—” he wheezes, trying and failing to keep singing, voice wrecked. “Jesus—”

He folds in half, still holding you, forehead dropping forward as he laughs so hard it looks painful.

Your shoulder is jammed into his chest now, your balance entirely gone, dignity long dead. His arm is locked around you because of course it is—because he’s Joe and apparently you’ve been assigned him as your personal safety rail.

The room explodes.

Someone is clapping wildly and wildly off-beat. Someone’s shouting like they’ve just witnessed history. Someone else is losing their mind entirely, yelling incoherently like this is the greatest moment of their life.

You’re still singing. Loud. Unapologetic. Joe is still laughing, gasping, trying to breathe like a man who has seen too much.

They herd you back in front of the camera for another take, like nothing just happened. Like you didn’t nearly knock Joe out mid–dramatic encore two minutes ago.

Joe straightens in his chair with startling determination. Spine straight. Shoulders back. Game face on. He smooths his hair like he’s stepping onto a late-night show instead of a set full of people who just watched him lose control of his lungs.

Professional. Poised. Composed.

A miracle.

He lifts a hand, flashing a polite, painfully rehearsed smile—the kind that says I am an actor. I can do this. I am normal.

“Hi! I’m Steve Harrington—” Joe starts, giving a little wave.

You don’t even try to hold it in.

“No, you’re not,” you snort, already laughing.

The illusion shatters instantly.

Joe drops his hand like it’s burned him, shoulders collapsing as he lets out a helpless laugh. He turns toward you, eyes crinkling, mouth falling open like he wants to argue but physically cannot.

Joe inhales like he’s resetting his entire nervous system. He sits up straighter again, chin lifted, voice carefully calm—actor voice, measured and polite, like he’s bracing himself against you.

“Hi! I’m Joe Keery—”

“And I’m Gator Tillman,” you cut in immediately, deadpan, staring straight ahead like this is the most reasonable introduction in the world. There’s a grin tugging at your mouth, but you don’t break.

There’s a beat.

Just half a second where Joe freezes and stares at you, eyes wide, brain visibly short-circuiting as he processes what you’ve just done to him.

Then he loses it.

“Oh, come on!” Joe laughs, the words tearing out of him as he folds forward, hands slapping down on his knees. His shoulders start shaking, head dropping as he laughs so hard he can’t even look at you.

The room erupts again—crew laughing, someone clapping like you’ve scored a point, someone else shouting encouragement like this is a sport.

You feel unreasonably proud of yourself.

Like you’ve just won something important.

“I’m a WINNER!” you shout, launching fully into it—accent cranked up way too high, voice booming as you mimic Gator’s wild delivery. You throw in the hand gestures too, big and dramatic, chest puffed out like you’re claiming a title belt no one asked for.

Joe doesn’t stand a chance.

He wheezes, laughter breaking into little gasps, one hand coming up like he needs you to stop, even though he’s smiling so hard it hurts.

“I— I can’t—” he tries, breathless, shaking his head.

The camera light blinks on.

Joe takes a steadying breath, posture straightening like he’s finally decided to behave. For half a second, it looks like this take might actually survive.

Then—without warning—he turns his head toward you instead of the camera.

A small, wicked smile tugs at his mouth. The kind that means you’ve been set up.

“Hi! I’m (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” Joe says sweetly, like he’s introducing royalty.

You snort immediately, a laugh bubbling out of you before you can stop it—but you don’t even hesitate.

“I’m Joe Kerry,” you cut in smoothly, nodding like this is exactly how this was always supposed to go. Your grin is bright, confident, unrepentant. “And today we’re reading thirst tweets!”

The room explodes.

Someone off-camera actually claps—claps—like you’ve just stuck the landing. Another person laughs so loud it echoes. Someone else makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a scream.

Joe lets out a long, pained groan and drops his head all the way back, laughter tearing out of him as he collapses into the chair. He has to brace himself on the armrest, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut like the betrayal physically hurts.

Joe lets out a sound beside you that’s caught somewhere between a laugh and a long, resigned sigh. You feel it more than hear it—the subtle shift of his shoulder edging closer to yours, like proximity might soften the blow that’s clearly coming.

You’re coworkers. Friends. Highly professional adults who absolutely did not flirt in the break room ten minutes ago and definitely do not need this energy right now.

A phone is placed into your hands.

It feels heavier than it should. Ominous.

You scroll once. Pause. Scroll again.

“Oh no,” you murmur, already doomed.

Joe leans in immediately, peering over your shoulder with the curiosity of a man about to regret every life choice he’s ever made. “Oh yes,” he says, far too eager.

You clear your throat, bracing yourself, and read aloud:

“I don’t know what it is about Joe Keery, but he looks like he’d hold your hand in public and absolutely ruin your life in private.”

There’s a half-second of stunned silence—

—and then the room detonates.

Someone shrieks. Someone else slaps a hand on the table like they just watched a winning goal. You choke on a laugh so hard it turns into a cough, spinning toward Joe as if seeking backup, mercy, anything.

Joe, meanwhile, has gone pink. Not just cheeks—ears, neck, the tops of his shoulders. The man is a human sunset.

“Why am I catching strays?” he blurts, hands flying up in surrender, palms out like he’s being arrested. “I didn’t even do anything!”

You’re crying laughing now, barely holding it together as you glance back down at the phone, scrolling with the air of someone reading his last rites.

“They’re not done with you,” you say, far too pleased.

Joe lets his head fall forward, elbows on the table, dragging his hands down his face like this might all be a nightmare he can physically wipe away.

“Please,” he groans, muffled into his palms. “Please be done with me.”

The phone is back in Joe’s hands and you clock it instantly—the way his posture shifts, shoulders pulling in just a little, lips pressing together like he’s bracing for impact. His thumb pauses mid-scroll.

Oh. It’s a bad one.

He glances at you first. Just a quick flick of his eyes, like a warning shot.

“Okay. Uh—” he clears his throat, buying himself half a second of courage. “‘Steve Harrington deserved to end up with Katherine and I will never forgive the universe for separating them. I know it was for half a season but still.’”

Something warm and unexpected settles in your chest before you can stop it—soft and heavy, like a memory you didn’t realize you were still carrying. The room reacts before you do, a collective awww rolling through the crew like a wave. Someone actually presses a hand to their heart. Another person whispers, “True.”

Joe smiles, but it’s different this time. Not chaotic, not embarrassed—just soft around the edges, fond in a way that sneaks up on you.

“That one’s actually kind of sweet,” he says, tilting the phone slightly as if rereading it.

You nod, the smile tugging at your mouth without effort. “They were solid.”

“Too solid,” Joe adds immediately, deadpan but affectionate. “That’s why they had to suffer.” He pauses, then amends it with a small shrug. “Even if it was only temporarily.”

There’s a beat—quiet, warm, almost reverent in the middle of all the chaos.

You reach over and tap the edge of his phone, snapping the moment before it can linger too long. “Next.”

Joe exhales a laugh, thumb already scrolling, but the smile stays.

Joe scrolls again—and immediately freezes.

His eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into his hairline. “Oh. Oh no.”

That tone alone makes you scoot closer, curiosity winning instantly. You lean in, shoulder brushing his, close enough to feel the warmth of him and hear the quiet hitch of his breath. “Let me see.”

He hesitates for half a second—too long—then angles the phone toward you anyway, like he’s bracing for impact.

You read aloud, “‘The way Steve looked at Katherine like she was the whole meal and dessert? Yeah. That changed my brain chemistry.’”

The room loses it.

Someone off-camera lets out an unholy wheeze. Another person slaps the table. You laugh, but it comes out breathy, a little disbelieving, hand lifting to your chest like you’ve been personally attacked. “That’s dramatic.”

Joe turns his head to look at you, eyes squinting slightly, genuinely puzzled. “Was I that obvious?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Joe,” you say, deadpan, voice perfectly calm while chaos reigns around you, “you played him like he was more than in love.”

There’s a chorus of oooohs. Someone whispers, “She’s right.” Someone else says, “Clocked.”

Joe shrugs, all faux-nonchalant, like he didn’t just get emotionally exposed in 4K. “Method acting.”

You snort.

He thinks about it for a second, lips pursed, then nods to himself like he’s reached a verdict. “Okay. Well—thank you,” he says, then tilts his head, grimacing slightly, “and also I’m sorry?”

You grin at him, wide and unapologetic. “You should be.”

The camera keeps rolling.

Joe scrolls again, thumb slowing like he’s just stepped on a landmine. A small, knowing smile tugs at his mouth. “Oh—this one’s about you.”

You immediately drop your head back with a groan. “Why is it always me.”

“Because the internet is observant,” he says, already clearing his throat like he’s about to deliver an eulogy.

He reads, “‘Katherine had no business being that calm while dating Steve Harrington. I would’ve folded immediately.’”

The room reacts on instinct—laughter, a few mmhmms, someone behind the camera going, “Same.”

You clutch your chest dramatically. “I did fold,” you insist. “Just… internally.”

Joe laughs, bright and loud, turning toward you. “You hid it well.”

“Years of training,” you say solemnly. “Very professional pretending I wasn’t dating the human embodiment of a golden retriever.”

Joe points at you like he’s been personally attacked. “Hey.”

You shoot him a look, eyebrow raised. “You know it’s true.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then stops, thinking. A beat. “Okay, yeah. Fair.”

The crew cracks up again. Joe shakes his head, still smiling and mutters, “Unbelievable. Absolutely slander.”

You grin, leaning back in your chair, entirely unrepentant.

Joe scrolls again, already chuckling before his eyes even land on the tweet. His shoulders shake, a little too hard for the quiet of the room.

“Okay—wow. Bold start,” he says, voice cracking with suppressed laughter. “‘Steve Harrington was hot, but Steve Harrington devouring Katherine in some scenes? That was lethal.’”

You tilt your head, pretending to be clinical, but the corners of your mouth twitch. “Lethal feels accurate.”

Joe nods like he’s delivering a TED Talk. “I did my own stunts.” His tone is deadpan, but you catch the gleam in his eye that says absolutely not serious.

You reach for the phone, fingers brushing his on accident. Well… maybe obviously—enough that he freezes a second, eyes flicking down before shooting you a smirk.

You read aloud, “‘Katherine looked at Steve like she knew something we didn’t. And I’d like her to teach a class.’”

You choke on a laugh, coughing into your hand. “I… don’t even know what that means.”

Joe leans closer, a little too close, the faint smell of coffee and soap drifting toward you. His voice drops, teasing, “I think you do...”

You glance at him, eyebrow raised, lips curling. “Do I?” You wink, deliberately slow.

His smirk deepens, that perfect mixture of mischievous and mortified while he shakes his head in disbelief.

The room reacts immediately—a collective ooooh floats from somewhere off-camera. Joe scrolls again and groans, hand flying to his face.

“Oh no,” Joe says, eyes widening like he’s just discovered a hidden horror in the timeline. “This one… crossed timelines.”

You grin, leaning a little closer. “Read it.”

He groans, dragging his fingers down his face like he’s preparing for impact. Then he reads, voice deliberate: “‘Joe looking at (Y/N) the way Steve looked at Katherine is proof that some men never break character.’”

The room loses it. Laughter explodes from every corner. Someone yells. Another claps. The chaos ricochets off the walls like it’s auditioning for its own scene.

You bury your face in your hands, muffling a laugh that’s far too sharp. “I hate the internet.”

Joe stares at the phone, then at you, eyes dark with mock indignation and… maybe a little something else. “I would like to formally state—”

You peek up through your fingers. “Yes?”

“—that I am a very committed actor.” His tone is half serious, half absurd and he punctuates it with a dramatic hand gesture like he’s at the Oscars.

You snort, dropping your hands. “Method acting strikes again.”

He leans just a fraction closer, the space between you electric. “It’s a lifestyle,” he mutters, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, clearly enjoying that he just made your cheeks heat up.

You glance at him sideways, grinning. “Oh, I believe you.”

Somewhere off-camera, a laugh echoes—and the chaos continues.

Joe scrolls once and immediately a strangled noise escapes him.

“No,” he groans, voice half-lost in laughter. “Nope. I hate this app.”

You lean over anyway, shoulder brushing his. “Give it to me.”

He squints at the screen, jaw tight, like he’s bracing for impact, then exhales as if surrendering. “‘We need to talk about how Steve Harrington is canonically big.’”

The room erupts. Someone whistles. Another coughs through laughter. Joe drops his head back, letting out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

You slam a hand over your mouth, trying and failing to stifle the wheeze clawing up your chest. “Robin had no business attacking Steve like that!” you gasp, tears already forming at the corners of your eyes. You glance at Joe, and he’s grinning through pink cheeks, shoulders shaking, one hand still clutching the phone like it’s a ticking bomb.

“Why do people do this to us?” he wheezes, voice tight, eyes glittering with both horror and amusement.

You lean into him, laughter spilling over and the accidental brush of your arms makes his chest jump. “Because it’s fun,” you gasp and he groans dramatically, clearly aware of the chaos—and also clearly enjoying it way too much.

Someone off-camera is fully losing it, crying-laughing, head thrown back and it infects the room like wildfire.

Joe scrolls down, grimacing like he’s watching a horror movie, but every second his grin cracks a little. “Oh great… there’s a reply,” he groans.

You snatch the phone before he can hide it and read aloud, voice rising in disbelief: “‘The hair. The confidence. The way he stands. You don’t get that without lore.’”

You completely lose it. “WITHOUT LORE—” you scream, hand flailing in the air, almost dropping the phone out of your hands.

He bends forward, hands on the table, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezed shut. “I… I can’t believe this is my legacy,” he wheezes, laughter rattling through his chest like he’s trying not to pass out.

You reach over and pat his shoulder, grinning like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “Steve Harrington: rich backstory,” you declare, voice theatrical, hands gesturing wildly.

Joe shoots you a look, exasperation painted across his flushed face. “Please… stop.”

You don’t. You lean in closer, whispering mock-seriously, “I could make a whole PowerPoint presentation on it.”

He groans again, head dropping onto the table, one hand clutched over his face and you can’t help it—you’re laughing so hard you nearly fall into his lap. The room is pure chaos. The energy is electric.

Every accidental brush of your hands on the phone, every shared laugh, makes the space between you feel smaller, hotter, completely uncontainable.

Joe puts his hands back on the phone and scrolls again, groaning loud enough to make someone off-camera glance over. “Oh, this one combined timelines again.”

You lean closer, shoulder brushing his, eyes glinting. “Hit me.”

He squints at the screen, then reads, voice tense with mock horror:

“‘Joe Keery is built exactly like Steve Harrington, which means the canonically big allegations unfortunately still stand.’”

You throw your head back, gasp exaggerated, hand flying to your chest. “Unfortunately?”

“UNFORTUNATELY?” Joe echoes, way too loud, flailing one hand as if trying to ward off the injustice of the internet. His laughter rattles through the room, ragged and breathless.

You grin, tilting your head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Sounds like a compliment to me.”

Joe narrows his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” you say, leaning just enough that your knee brushes his. “I’m just… also on the internet’s side.”

He throws his head back again, laughing, the kind of laugh that shakes his whole body and makes it impossible to be professional. You both teeter on the edge of chaos, shoulders brushing, energy electric, like the room could collapse under the weight of how ridiculous this is.

Joe scrolls again, groaning like the internet has personally betrayed him, and you can feel it—the laughter, the tension, the accidental closeness—bubbling into full-on, chaotic, flirty mayhem.

Joe scrolls again and the moment his thumb moves, regret seeps into his bones like cold water.

“I need everyone to know,” he says slowly, voice measured but tight, “that this app should come with a warning label.”

You lean closer, shoulder brushing his, smirk tugging at your lips. “You say that every time.”

“And every time I’m correct,” he mutters, eyes rolling, thumbs trembling over the screen like it’s going to bite him.

He reads aloud, deadpan, disbelief lacing every word:

“‘Steve Harrington being canonically big explains why Katherine was always so calm during apocalypses. She already saw his monster, the others were just childplay for her.’”

You howl. Throwing your head back, shrieking with laughter and clutch his arm like it’s a lifeline. “Oh my— not the emotional stability explanation!”

Joe stares at the ceiling like he’s silently begging the universe for mercy. “I was fighting monsters, not allegations,” he groans.

You can’t help yourself. You’re wiping tears from your eyes, leaning into him just a little more than necessary. “Apparently,” you gasp between laughs, “you were doing both.”

He shoots you a look over the edge of his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching. “I—don’t—think I signed up for this,” he says, but his grin gives him away.

The room is a mess of laughter, snorts and accidental shoulder touches, but somehow it’s exactly the chaos you both needed.

“Oh great,” Joe groans, scrolling like he’s bracing himself for a punch. “This one’s about you again.”

You groan, flopping slightly against the table. “Why do they keep looping me in?”

He squints at the phone, then reads aloud, deadpan but with a flicker of mischief:

“‘Katherine knew. Katherine always knew. You don’t date Steve Harrington without knowing.’”

You press a hand to your chest, dramatic, gasping. “I feel so exposed.”

Joe leans just a little closer, shoulder brushing yours, eyes glinting with something mischievous. “Did you… know?”

You lift a brow, meeting his gaze like it’s a challenge. “Joe.”

He bursts into laughter, a snort sneaking through. “Fair. Very fair.”

He scrolls again, groaning louder this time, like the internet itself is personally attacking him. “‘Steve Harrington being canonically big is why Hawkins High never stood a chance.’”

You throw your head back, laughing so hard it rattles your ribs. “Hawkins High was doomed!”

“Academically and emotionally,” Joe adds, straight-faced, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him.

You nod, mock solemn. “A tragedy, really. Truly historic.”

The two of you share a glance, both of you trying—and failing—not to laugh again, the phone now a dangerous instrument of chaos between you. Every scroll feels like it’s adding fuel to a fire you don’t want to put out.

Joe scrolls again, slower this time, like he’s steeling himself against some kind of digital ambush. “…Okay. This one is just about me,” he says, eyebrows knitting together suspiciously.

You tilt your head, mock innocent. “Let’s hear it.”

He clears his throat, voice low, like he’s reading something scandalous aloud:

“‘Joe Keery looks like he’d accidentally flirt with you while asking if you’ve eaten today.’”

You snort, almost spitting out your drink. “That’s devastatingly accurate.”

Joe blinks at you, caught mid-scroll, a little pink creeping into his cheeks. “I don’t—”

“You do,” you cut him off, smirk tugging at your lips. “You asked me that this morning.”

He points at you, mock-offended. “That was concern.”

You lean closer, voice low, teasing. “That was flirting with a granola bar involved.”

The room erupts—half laughter, half groans, a collective “ohhh!”—and you both lean back, trying to keep it together. Joe’s shoulder bumps yours and for a second it feels like the only thing grounding you both is the shared chaos and the absurdity of reading thirst tweets with your friend-turned-co-conspirator.

Joe scrolls again, slow and deliberate, like he’s anticipating disaster. “Oh good. Balance. This one’s about you.”

You brace yourself, hands gripping the edge of the chair as if it’ll protect you from the internet’s judgment.

He reads, voice flat but betraying amusement:

“‘(Y/N) has the calmest energy I’ve ever seen, which means she’s either insane or has daddy issues.’”

You tilt your head at the camera, grin slow and sweet, eyes sparkling with mock innocence. “I choose mystery.”

Joe actually nods, deadpan, like this is a profound revelation. “That tracks.”

The room bursts—half in laughter, half in groans. You can feel Joe’s shoulder press against yours, accidental or not, grounding you in the chaos. Your own laughter escapes, breathy and loud and for a second, it’s pure chaos: tweets, friends, the absurdity of it all.

Another scroll. Joe groans, a long, dramatic sound that makes the room tilt with anticipation.

“This one combined us again,” he mutters, like the universe is personally targeting him.

You lean in, shoulder brushing his, heart picking up speed at the contact. “Of course it did,” you say, grin twitching.

Joe clears his throat, trying—and failing—to sound serious. “‘Joe and (Y/N) have the kind of chemistry that makes you feel like you’re interrupting something by watching.’”

The room goes silent for a split second, the kind of quiet that makes you feel every heartbeat echo in your ears. You blink, tilting your head, lips twitching. “That feels rude.”

Joe throws his head back, laughing, pointing at the camera like he’s about to lecture it personally. “Yeah. Mind your business,” he says, mock-serious, voice dripping with the kind of scolding energy that’s entirely inappropriate for someone in his own lap of chaos.

You snort, shaking your head, trying and failing to hide how much the shoulder brush lingers, how much you love that the chaos somehow includes both of you. The room is already buzzing again with laughter and gasps, and somehow the energy spirals even higher—you’re both halfway between scandal and entertainment, and the internet has no idea how much fun it just unleashed.

Joe scrolls again, shaking his head like he’s trying to physically dislodge the internet from his brain. “They’re not done.”

You grin, leaning closer so your shoulder brushes his again. “They never are,” you tease, already anticipating the chaos.

He clears his throat, voice tight with a mixture of dread and amusement. “‘Joe looks at (Y/N) like he’s waiting for permission.’”

You choke on air, hand flying to your chest. “PERMISSION TO WHAT?” you gasp, high-pitched, laughter and disbelief tangling in your voice.

Joe’s ears flush pink instantly, creeping all the way up to his scalp. He waves his hands like he’s warding off some unseen accusation. “I don’t… I don’t know what that means,” he stammers.

You tilt your head, eyes sparkling, mischievous. “Do you want me to explain it?”

He throws his head back, laughing so hard his chest shakes, like he’s trying to erase the words from reality. “Nope. Nope nope nope. Moving on,” he says, voice tight with faux seriousness—but you can tell he’s dying inside.

You snort, watching him desperately scroll, fingers trembling like he’s defusing a bomb. The whole room is vibrating with laughter, someone somewhere clapping in the background like this is a live variety show and somehow—you both feel like you haven’t even gotten past the first line yet.

Joe scrolls again, then freezes, eyes locked on the phone like it just personally attacked him. “…This one’s bold,” he mutters, voice tight.

You squint at him, leaning closer until your shoulder brushes his. “Read it,” you tease, already grinning.

He exhales sharply, like he’s preparing for battle. “‘Joe and (Y/N) act like they’ve already had the conversation but decided to ignore the outcome.’”

The room lets out a collective oooh, some half-laughing, half-gasping.

You laugh too, quieter this time, a mix of disbelief and nerves. “Wow. That feels… invasive.”

Joe’s eyes flick to yours and you can tell he’s trying to be casual—but his pulse is visible in his neck, his jaw tight. “Yeah,” he admits, voice low, “I… don’t like that this is accurate.”

You cock an eyebrow, leaning a little closer, trying not to smirk. “Accurate?”

His gaze lingers a second too long and you feel it—warm, tense, like electricity sparking in the space between you. “Huh?” he mutters finally, clearing his throat like he’s just swallowed a live wire. “Next tweet.”

The air feels charged now, the phone acting like some tiny conduit of chaos. Every scroll feels dangerous, like you’re teetering on the edge of a volcano made of laughs and embarrassment—and somehow, both of you are already halfway melted.

Joe scrolls through the latest batch of thirst tweets like he’s entering enemy territory, eyebrows knitting together, lips twitching into that smile that says I already know I’m doomed.

Before he can even react, your hand shoots out, snatching the phone. “‘I think they did it but I just can’t prove it,’” you read aloud, eyes wide, a playful glare aimed right at him after.

Joe leans in, shoulder brushing yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. His voice drops low, teasing, barely above the hum of the room. “Steve and Katherine? Oh, total—”

You cut him off, mock-serious, chin tipped up. “Yeah, absolutely—”

The room practically vibrates around you as laughter bubbles up from somewhere off-camera. Your knee bumps his under the table—accidental, obvious—and both of you freeze for just a second, a shared jolt of awareness sparking between you.

Joe clears his throat, trying to regain composure, but the corner of his mouth keeps twitching into that damn grin. “I can’t… I can’t believe they write these things.”

You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Believe it. Or deny it. I’m not judging.”

He leans a fraction closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that makes your pulse skip. “I don’t know if I want to deny it.”

You bite back a laugh, letting your shoulder brush against his again—deliberately this time—and the chaos in the room feels like it’s leaking into the two of you, electricity crackling over every shared glance and accidental touch.

Another scroll.

“Watching Joe eye-fucking (Y/N) is like watching someone about to commit a crime they already know they’ll get away with.”

You snort. Joe loses it. Somewhere behind the cameras howl.

“Eye-fucking? Really?”

Joe freezes mid-scroll, eyes snapping to yours. His lips twitch, somewhere between scandalized and way too aware. “I don’t know what they mean by that.”

“Oh, come on,” you say, leaning just enough that your shoulder brushes his. “Everyone sees it. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

He stiffens, tries to straighten, but you can feel him shift closer anyway. “This app is criminal,” he mutters, voice low. “Seriously, it’s a hazard.”

“Hazard? Joe,” you murmur, grinning, letting your fingers ghost over the edge of the phone toward him, “you’re literally committing a crime.”

He groans, head tilting back as a laugh escapes him, shaky and loud enough to echo in the room. “I—no. Stop.”

Somewhere behind the camera, someone’s doubled over laughing, another person shouts something incomprehensible, and there’s Joe—pink to the ears, flustered, trying and failing to maintain composure while the universe (and you) gleefully watch.

“Oh, that’s all?” you lift your head, glancing toward the crew behind the cameras just as Joe does. The way he catches your eye—half grin, half oh no—makes your chest skip a beat.

“You know what?” you continue, leaning just a little toward him, “these weren’t even that bad.” You tilt your head, giving him a teasing glance.

Joe chuckles, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, eyes flicking to yours with that same mix of exasperation and amusement. “I saw a lot worse,” he admits, voice low, “I just… couldn’t read them on camera.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips quirking. “Ohhh, you have to show me in private then.”

He laughs, a sharp, breathless sound that makes the room vibrate around you, and you laugh with him, shoulders brushing. Just for a second, it feels like everyone else has disappeared—the crew, the cameras, the phones, the chaos of the tweets. It’s just you two, laughing in the aftermath, dangerously close, still carrying that buzz from everything you’ve read and seen.

You both sit in front of the camera, spines straight, faces deliberately serious, like actual professionals for once.

“See you all next week on SNL,” Joe says, pointing at the lens. You grin, eyes sparkling.

“Until then, we were Joe Keery and—”

“Britney, bitch!” you cut in, voice cracking high with a perfect, over-the-top Britney accent. You toss a few strands of hair behind your ear with exaggerated flair, just like the meme and the grin on your face is impossible to miss.

Joe freezes for half a second, then loses it completely. He throws his head back, laughter spilling out uncontrollably, shaking in the chair before he gets up.

“I’m done,” he wheezes between laughs, clutching his stomach as if the world might collapse under your ridiculousness.

You can’t help it—you laugh too, the serious façade gone, leaving nothing but pure, chaotic energy between the two of you.