#chandler

Later, you’re talking to someone named Brian (Brad?) You don’t quite catch whatever he says, and it doesn’t matter, you can feel Chandler’s gaze on you.

You lean in to Brad (Ben?) with a little smile, fingers ghosting over his arm, knowing full well what effect it has--not on him, but on Chandler. He's across the room, pretending to laugh with a brunette in a dress that’s both floral and unreal.

Your eyes meet again. And time stutters.

You pluck a grape from the bowl. It tastes sweeter than it should. You pop it into your mouth with a flourish, your fingers stay on her lips for a second too long, just enough to be suggestive, and Chandler’s smile slips like he’s forgotten what planet he’s on.

You excuse yourself from Ben (Brendan?) and make your way across the room.

You lean in, your lips grazing Chandlers ear. "If you keep looking at me like that,” you murmur, “I’m gonna start dripping through my panties.”

He makes a choked sound.

“And we both know you’d be the first one to offer to clean it up.”

You walk away before he can speak--though his expression says it all.”

Exactly seven minutes later--you’re sure of it, somehow--you’re in the kitchen scooping sangria oranges into your cup when you feel him behind you.

Chandler. Close enough to feel. Closer than he’s ever stood in public.

His voice is low, steady, like he's done this before.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve been trying really hard to behave tonight.” He leans in a little more. “But I've been wondering-- do you make the same little noise when someone bites your neck as you do when you eat sour candy?”

You can’t breathe for a second. The party still hums faintly behind you, but it sounds like it’s coming from another room. Or another world.

You sip. Slowly. “Depends. Are you planning to bite me before or after the cake?”

He laughs quietly. You feel it against your spine.

Next thing you know, you're in your room. Everything glows; soft, honeyed edges, like the night itself is watching and holding its breath.

You're standing at the edge of your bed, his shirt is half-untucked, pupils dark and wide like he’s drowning in something he asked for. His breath is unsteady. Yours is worse.

And then he's on you.

He moves so fast it makes your head spin.

The kiss slams into you--open-mouthed, hungry, messy in the way that makes your knees go weak. He catches you when you stumble back against the bed, hands everywhere--your waist, your ass, your jaw, like he can’t decide what to touch first.

You gasp against his mouth when his thigh wedges between yours, grinding up slow. The pressure sends a hot jolt through you, your hips canting forward before you can stop them.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You’re--god--”

“Obsessed with you?” he offers against your neck, kissing lower, biting just enough to make your breath hitch. “Yeah. I know.”

You end up on your back before you realize you’ve moved. He’s on top, weight braced on his forearms, his body slotted against yours so perfectly it feels like something you’ve dreamed before. Or lived through already, in some other timeline.

His mouth trails fire down your throat, across your collarbone, his hands dragging your dress up with impatient care. “This is torture,” he mutters, like he’s blaming you for every inch of skin he uncovers. “Do you know how long I’ve--?”

You arch under him when his mouth finds your breast, suckles through the lace like he’s starving for it. One of his hands cups your other breast--he groans into you when you whimper, squirming. “There it is,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “That noise.”

You’re trembling now, grinding up against his thigh, desperate and soaked. “Chandler, please--”

His hand dips between your legs, fingers pressing over your panties--soaked straight through. “Jesus.” His voice catches. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

You tug at his shirt, frantic. “Off. Please.”

He yanks it over his head, then goes to his knees and drags your panties down your thighs, slow and teasing. His eyes never leave your face.

“You’re unreal,” he says, almost like it hurts.

He’s on you again in a flash, kissing down your stomach, down the inside of your thigh. When his mouth finally finds you--wet, aching, open--you moan so loudly it startles you. His hands keep your hips pinned, his tongue working you apart.

He wrecks you with his mouth. Makes you come undone on his tongue, shaking, your fingers tangled in his hair and your thighs clenched around his head like you’ll never let him go.

You cum hard--too hard--your back arching off the mattress, your vision whiting out.

You barely register him moving, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a man possessed. Then he’s kissing you again and you taste yourself on his lips. It only makes you need more.

He pushes inside with one slow, deep thrust. a you didn't when register when he took off his pants. You choke on a breath. Because it’s too much and not enough, perfect and surreal. Because your body opens for him like it’s done it before. Like it was made to.

Chandler groans low in your ear, holding still as you wrap your legs around his waist. “You okay?”

You nod, frantic. “Move. Please--move--”

He does. Slowly at first, grinding into you like he wants to stay in you forever. The pressure builds fast, every thrust stealing a little more of your breath. He kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside you. You scratch at his back, pull him deeper, whisper every filthy thing you’ve never dared say out loud.

He gives it all back--thrust for thrust, kiss for kiss, moan for moan. Like he’s yours. Like he’s always been.

You cum again, your body clenching around him, eyes glassy, mouth open on a broken sob. It’s too much. Too good. Too real.

When he follows, it’s with your name gasped against your throat, desperate and hoarse and so full of feeling it hurts.

You wake up like you’ve been dropped into your body.

Hot. Sweaty. Your thighs clenched. Your heart pounding.

It takes a second to orient yourself--your bedroom, dim early-morning light seeping in through the curtains, the familiar face of Bowie on the wall. Nothing’s on fire. No one’s in your bed.

You blink at the ceiling.

Oh. Oh no.

That wasn’t a dream.

That was a Chandler dream.

You groan and flop your face into your pillow, mortified at yourself. Like your brain betrayed you while you were unconscious.

And the worst part?

You liked it.

You shift, still half-squirming from the lingering heat between your legs, and try to shake it off. No. No no no. It’s fine. It’s nothing. Just a dream. Just… a very detailed, deeply unholy dream.

You’re fine.

(You’re not fine.)

You eventually drag yourself out of bed, throw on the closest pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, and trudge into the living room like a woman recovering from war.

The group’s already halfway through a lazy Sunday morning. Monica’s on the floor sorting through laundry, Joey’s eating something aggressively crunchy, and Chandler’s--

Chandler’s on the couch.

You almost walk straight into a wall.

He glances up from the newspaper and gives you a lazy smile. “Well, well. Sleeping Beauty awakens.”

You freeze for half a second too long before muttering, “Yeah, sorry. Rough night.”

Joey snorts. “What, did you go out after we all went to bed?”

You stare at him. “Uh--no. Just couldn't sleep... then some weird dreams.”

Chandler quirks a brow. "Weird how? Clowns? Falling teeth?”

You shrug and immediately regret it because you can still feel it. The dream. His mouth. His voice in your ear. Your whole body tightening--

“Nightmare?” Monica asks, glancing over.

You clear your throat. “More like the opposite.”

“So… a nice dream.” Chandler resolves.

“Yup. Totally boring. Very wholesome. Probably involved, like… puppies. Or cereal.”

Phoebe looks up from where she’s braiding her hair. “Did the cereal seduce you?”

“No,” you snap, too quickly.

Everyone stares.

You smile way too wide. “I’m gonna make coffee.”

You walk into the kitchen with the energy of a person pretending not to be dying. You can feel Chandler watching you. You’re pretty sure your entire face is still red. Every word he says feels like it’s layered with secret meaning, even though it’s not.

(It’s just him. It’s always just him.)

And now your subconscious is involved.

Fantastic.

You pour yourself a mug of coffee with shaking hands and try not to picture his hands anywhere else.

The coffee tastes terrible.

You drink it anyway.

You’re still standing at the counter pretending to read the back of a cereal box when you hear him behind you--quiet steps, but you know it’s him before he even speaks.

Chandler’s voice is low, casual. “So… this dream.”

You freeze, shoulders tensing.

“No big deal,” you say quickly, too quick. “Totally normal. Just--dream stuff.”

He steps a little closer. “Was I in it?”

You almost choke on your coffee.

You turn your head slightly, trying to play it off. “What? No. Why would you be?”

He lifts a brow. “I don’t know. You said it was the opposite of a nightmare. That’s gotta be me.”

You scoff, flustered. “Please. You in my dreams would be--like--me having to file taxes with you. Or getting lost in a mall with no escape.”

He tilts his head, lips twitching. “That actually sounds like a nightmare.”

“Exactly.”

He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve dodged it--until he says, “You muttered something weird when you walked in.”

You go still. “Like what?”

“Something about subconscious seduction.” He repeats, hands in the air like he's framing the words.

Your cheeks flame.

You stare straight ahead. “I meant, like… metaphorically.”

He leans in just a little, voice warmer now, more curious. “You sure you weren’t dreaming about, I don’t know… proximity? Heavy breathing? That thing where someone says your name just a little too low?”

Your breath catches.

It’s tiny, but he hears it.

You whirl around, eyes wide. “Okay! I have to get ready for work now!”

Chandler stares, amused. “You work today?”

“Yup! That's what happens when you have school 5 days a week! Your Sundays get taken by the evil capitalist regime!” You’re backing out of the kitchen, rambling, one hand in your hair, face hot enough to ignite.

He watches you go, eyebrows raised.

And then it hits him.

He blinks. His mouth opens slightly. Then slowly, slowly--a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

Oh.

Oh yes.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tease you. Not yet.

But you’ve just confirmed so much more than you meant to.

And now he knows.

It’s just after 11 a.m., and Central Perk is slow. The sky outside is overcast, and the café is quiet--Low hums softly through the speakers. One of the perks of being Gunther’s favorite (or at least most competent) employee is full control of the music. Or maybe he’s just too scared to risk hearing what you’d say if he ever tried playing some of his own music.

Monica, Joey, Ross, and Chandler have claimed the couch area, surrounded by empty mugs and crumpled napkins. You’re working the counter, doing your best to look like a normal person who didn’t have an embarrassingly vivid sex dream about your best friend last night.

You approach the group with the coffee pot tucked against your hip.

"Refills?”

Joey perks up immediately. “Hit me.”

You top him off, then Monica. Ross holds out his mug.

“Hey, did you guys know that caffeine can actually increase dream vividness?” Ross offers, apropos of nothing.

Chandler slowly sets his cup down on the table, not looking at you. “That so?”

“Yeah. And if you wake up during REM sleep, you’re more likely to remember them,” Ross continues.

“Huh,” Chandler says, chin resting in his palm. “That explains so much.”

Your stomach drops.

Monica raises a brow. “Like what?”

Chandler lifts his mug again. “Just… intense dreams. The kind that stay with you all day. Make you question reality.”

You freeze for a half second, pouring Ross’s coffee too close to the rim. He doesn’t notice, but Monica’s eyes flick to you.

"Sounds specific,” she says slowly.

Chandler shrugs. “Not really. Could happen to anyone. Just one of those dreams where someone you definitely shouldn’t be thinking about like that does something completely--”

“Okay!” you interrupt, too loudly, voice cracking. “So, coffee! For everyone! How great is that!”

Ross blinks at you. “Are you okay?”

Monica leans forward, suspicious. “Wait…”

Joey squints between you and Chandler. “Wait.”

Chandler just smiles. Calm. Casual. Smug as someone who thinks being unbearable is a form of flirting.

Monica gasps. “Oh my God.”

Joey’s jaw drops. “You had a sex dream about Chandler?!”

Ross sputters. “Seriously?!”

You drop your forehead into your palm. “I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to!” Monica laughs. “Look at your face!”

“Look at his face!” Joey points. “He’s thrilled!”

Chandler sips his coffee with exaggerated innocence. “I mean, I guess now’s a good time to say I’m flattered.”

You gape at him. “You are insufferable.”

“Still waiting on that play-by-play, by the way,” he adds. “Purely for dream-analysis purposes.”

Ross groans. “Please stop talking.”

"That's why she was so weird this morning." Joey says, mostly to himself.

You turn to flee back to the counter, but Monica grabs your wrist, grinning. “Wait--was he at least good in the dream?”

“Monica!”

Joey whistles. “Bet Dream Chandler rocked your world.”

“Joey!”

Ross makes a noise of disgust. “I need brain bleach.”

Chandler leans back, arms crossed behind his head. “I’m just glad to be included.”

You yank your arm from Monica’s grasp, fully red now, and storm off to the safety of the counter.

“Coffee’s over!” you call out. “Everyone can just suffer.”

Behind you, you can still hear them laughing. Joey pats Chandlers shoulder. “Dude, you were in her subconscious. That’s like--deep.”

“What can I say? I make an impression.” Chandler grins, raising his mug to his mouth.

twenty minutes later, you’re behind the counter, restocking napkins and minding your business--trying not to think about how you accidentally admitted, in front of everyone, that you had a sex dream about Chandler.

Which is, of course, when he sidles up across the counter; right across from you.

“Hey,” he says casually, arms folded on the counter. “So… about that dream.”

You stiffen, side-eyeing him. “We are not talking about it.”

“Right, right. Totally inappropriate to pry.” He nods solemnly, then leans in a little, dropping his voice to a near-whisper. “Which is why I’ve decided to share mine instead.”

You freeze. “You what?”

He smirks. “I had a dream about you. A few nights ago. Pretty vivid, actually.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed.

“Let’s set the scene,” he says, like he’s pitching a movie. “The coffeehouse, after hours. No one around. All the lights low. You’re behind the counter--right where you’re standing now. I come in to bother you, like I do, except this time you’re wearing that shirt.”

You blink. “What shirt?”

“You know. That one you borrowed from Monica a couple weeks ago. The black one with the little buttons and sleeves that do absolutely nothing to hide the fact that you exist.”

Your face heats up instantly and you start rambling. “Really? I almost didn’t wear that. I felt kind of dumb. Like… like people would look and laugh.”

He tilts his head, eyes softening in a way you weren’t expecting. “I was looking. But I promise you--I wasn’t laughing. I was trying really hard not to die. You looked amazing.”

You blink.

“And the skirt,” he goes on, smirking again. “Short. Black. That little slit on the side? It was driving me insane. I remember the way it hit at your thighs when you moved--and how it bunched up when you climbed on top of me.”

You nearly drop the stack of napkins your holding.

“On the couch, by the way,” he adds. “You straddled me right here in the middle of the coffeehouse. Your hands in my hair, your hips grinding down on me like you were trying to break me in half.”

You go absolutely still.

“And the sounds you made--Jesus,” he says with a laugh that’s more breath than sound, like the memory still short-circuits him. “You were so needy. So pretty. Loud in that way that made me wanna--”

He shakes his head, swallows, recovers with a smirk. “Dream-you was kind of a menace, honestly. Kept pulling at my shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from exploding. Like if I didn’t touch you right then, you’d unravel.”

Your grip tightens on the napkin stack.

He leans in a little more, voice dropping. “And I couldn’t keep my hands off you. I tried. I really did. But you were everywhere. Your mouth, your hands, those little sounds you made--like you didn’t care who heard. Like you wanted me to lose my mind.”

Your pulse thunders in your ears.

“You felt…” He trails off for a second, then lifts his gaze like he’s saying it to the air, not to you. “You felt so good. Soft and warm and--God, Y/N, you wrapped around me like I belonged there.”

That last part slips out before he can stop it, and it hangs in the air for a beat too long.

His confidence falters. He clears his throat, awkward again. “I mean--uh. Not to get all Nicholas Sparks about it. It was just a dream. A very detailed, very high-definition dream. Directed by, apparently, my subconscious and--uh--some kind of pornographic ghost?”

He grimaces. “Forget I said the ghost thing.”

You stare at him, breath caught.

He grins weakly. “Anyway. Thought I’d share. You know. Just doing my part to keep the workplace environment completely unprofessional.”

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

Then--casually, infuriatingly--he straightens, taps the counter twice, tosses you a wink, and says, “Anyway, just thought I’d even the score. I’ll be expecting a full report on your dream sometime soon. Details. Visual aids if necessary.”

You stare at him, utterly flustered.

He grins like he just won a gold medal in emotional terrorism and heads back to the couch like nothing happened.

You blink down at the counter.

“Jesus Christ.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Then:

“I don’t pay you enough for whatever that was.”

You jump--actually jump--turning to see Gunther standing five feet away, holding a tray of clean mugs and blinking at you with his usual flat expression.

You open your mouth, but--yeah. No words. Just embarrassment.

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just nods once, like he’s mentally raising your hourly wage by a dollar, and walks off.

You stare after him, mortified.

Somewhere behind you, Chandler laughs under his breath.

Asshole.

The room was dark except for the warm glow of a lamp on Monica’s nightstand. She’s tucked under her covers, eyes closed, one arm flung dramatically over her forehead like a fainting Victorian widow.

You, meanwhile, are pacing at the foot of her bed in pajama shorts and a Bowie t-shirt, barefoot and fuming.

“I mean, who does that?” you whisper-yell. “Who just casually describes a sex dream in excruciating detail while I'm working and then walks away like he didn’t just commit a war crime?”

Monica groans into her pillow. “You’re still on this?”

“I’m haunted,” you hiss. “It was explicit. He described the skirt. And my shirt. And the-- the way I sounded. I didn’t even know I made sounds in dreams!”

“You make sounds in real life,” Monica mumbles into her pillow, half-asleep.

You stop dead in your tracks. “Excuse me?”

She cracks one eye open and gives a lazy, knowing shrug. “You whimper in your sleep. Like, little soft pathetic noises. It’s adorable. Now go to bed.”

You stare at her, betrayed. “Why are you saying that like it’s normal information?”

“Because it is. I’ve lived with you for months. Plus, you’ve fallen asleep on Chandler like… what? Four times now?”

You blink. “That is--no I haven’t.”

Monica rolls onto her side to face you, propping her head up on one hand like she’s settling in for story time. “Let’s see. The first time was when he put on Back To The Future. Once after you had that bad date. Once you literally asked him to sleep with you-- that time you were sick. And that time you fell asleep in the cab on the way back from Coney Island.”

Your jaw drops. “That last one doesn’t count! You know I always get tired during car trips!”

“Exactly. And you were all curled into his side, making these soft little nnngh noises--like a puppy having a dream.”

You press both hands to your face. “Oh my God.”

“And he looked at you,” she continues, grinning now. “Like you were the cutest thing on the planet. Like he was gonna melt into the floor. Joey and I were gagging.”

You drop to your knees beside the bed, mortified. “This is a nightmare.”

Monica shrugs again. “At this point, I’m pretty sure he knows more about your sleep habits than you do.”

You collapse forward onto her comforter, groaning into it like the fabric might swallow you whole.

Monica pats your hair. “There, there. At least the guy who’s emotionally unraveling you is also extremely into you.”

You whimper again--this time, very much awake.

You groan again into Monica’s comforter. “This is a nightmare. A recurring, slow-motion, pants-less nightmare.”

Monica’s hand stills in your hair. “You’re being a little dramatic.”

You lift your head. “Am I? Monica, he said my name like he was in love with me.”

She stares.

You wave your arms. “In the dream! His dream! He said it like it meant something. And then just walked away like it was a fun anecdote! I mean--who does that?”

“Apparently Chandler Bing,” Monica mutters, turning onto her back.

You stand again and resume pacing. “Okay but it’s not just today, Mon. It’s been building. He’s been making these comments--like, deliberately, right? That time in November when I borrowed his hoodie and he said I looked so cute he forgot what we were talking about? That wasn’t nothing. Or--or last week when I had whipped cream on my finger and he just looked at me? Like he was gonna die?”

Monica groans into her pillow. “You are obsessed with him.”

Your head snaps around. “I am not.”

She rolls onto her back, deadpan. “You’re pacing like a crazy person at 12a.m. and reciting his greatest hits. Just say you’re in love and go to bed.”

You clutch your chest like she shot you. “In love? Are you insane? I’m panicking. There’s a difference.”

“Sure,” she says dryly. “You’re panicking because the guy you’re not at all obsessed with had a hot dream about you.”

“He described my shirt!” you cry. “And my skirt. And how I--felt. That’s not just a sex dream, Monica, that’s a file.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You think he’s the problem here?”

You freeze.

She props herself up on one elbow. “Because I seem to remember someone else whispering some pretty vivid stuff not too long ago.”

You go still. “That was part of a game.”

“Mm-hmm. Totally innocent.”

You squint. “It was.”

Monica smirks. “So when said you were thinking about what he'd do if you sat in his lap and told him he couldn't cum until you said so--that was just some light-hearted holiday banter?”

Your face goes red instantly. “He started it!”

“Oh, right. The classic ‘he said it first’ defense,” she deadpans.

“He did!” you insist, pointing at her like it’s proof. “He said, ‘If you finish that chapter in the next five minutes, I’ll let you sit on my face until you forget what your name is.’ I didn’t invent the tone, Monica! I just… matched it.”

Monica stares at you for a long moment.

“…You memorized the phrasing.”

You freeze again. “I didn’t mean to.”

She sighs, flopping back onto the pillows. “You are so far gone.”

“I am not--”

“You are!” she yells, voice muffled by the comforter. “You are gone, Y/N! Obsessed. Wrecked. You’ve got it bad. And he does too!”

You hover near the end of the bed, a little breathless now.

She peeks one eye open. “You know I love you, but you’re both the dumbest people I’ve ever met.”

You drop dramatically to the floor. “I hate this.”

“You love it.”

“I hate him.”

She snorts. “You sound like a Victorian novel.”

You groan and cover your face with your hands.

She throws a pillow at you. “Admit you like him and let me sleep!”

You muffle into the pillow, “I don’t like him, I just… think about him. A lot. In detail. All the time.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Monica says, “Jesus Christ.”

You lie flat on the floor, staring at the ceiling like maybe it’ll crack open and drop some wisdom on you.

Monica doesn’t say anything for a minute. Just breathes, slow and even, waiting you out.

Eventually, you whisper, “I think he actually sees me.”

Monica blinks. Turns her head slightly. “Of course he does.”

“No, I mean--” You sit up, arms draped around your knees. “Like he sees the stuff most people skip past. The weird parts. The too-much parts. And he doesn't run away, you know?”

She watches you, quiet.

You drag a hand through your hair. "Like--remember in November? We got stuck in that elevator with Ross, and I was freaking out, and he just helped me. No questions, no judgment. Just talked me through it like it was nothing.”

Your voice softens. “He started ranting about Full House, of all things, just to distract me. He insulted my favourite characters because he knew it would get my mind off the whole 'stuck in a box' thing.”

You huff a laugh. “And it worked.”

Monica’s expression softens, and you continue, a little quieter now.

"And being around him--it’s not just about the attraction. I mean, yes, obviously, I’ve imagined climbing him like a tree--”

Monica snorts.

“--but it’s more than that,” you say, quieter now. “He makes me feel… not insane. Like the inside of my head isn’t a terrible place to be.”

You huff out a breath. “Which is kind of terrifying. Because what if I’m wrong? What if I’ve just built this whole thing up and I’m reading into everything because he’s the first guy who’s ever--” You stop. “I don’t know. Looked at me like that.”

No one speaks for moment.

“You’re not reading it wrong,” she says.

You glance over at her.

“I’ve seen how he looks at you,” she says. “It’s not casual. It hasn’t been casual since, like… Halloween.”

Your stomach twists.

"He likes you. A lot. And I don’t think he knows what to do with it either.”

You press your forehead to your knees. “It’d be easier if I could just keep it at ‘like.’ But it’s not. It’s… he feels like the one place I don’t have to hold back. And I don’t even know how that happened.”

Monica blinks hard. “Cool. Great. I love that you’re broken open like a poetry slam.”

You flip her off without looking up.

She grins faintly. “So. Now what?”

You sigh. “Absolutely no idea.”

And you don’t. Except that something in you feels cracked open--and he’s already in it.

You’re at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into your travel mug with the same careful precision you use when everything else feels out of control--like if you get this one thing right, maybe the rest won’t fall apart.

Chandler ambles in, already dressed for work.

“Morning,” he says, grabbing a mug for himself.

You glance over your shoulder. “Hey.”

It’s quiet. Too quiet. No sarcasm, no teasing. Just… Hey.

He frowns. “No joke about my hair? My shirt? The fact that I look like I lost a bet with a scarecrow?”

You manage a faint smile. “Too easy.”

But it doesn’t land. Not really.

You cap your mug carefully, sling your bag over your shoulder, and grab your discman from the counter.

“I’ve got a long day. Double lecture and a shift.”

He watches you, brow furrowed. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, already halfway to the door. “See you.”

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

Chandler stands there for a beat, blinking. Then turns to Monica, who’s sitting at the kitchen table with her coffee and a magazine, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“What was that?” he asks, gesturing vaguely toward the door.

Monica doesn’t look up. “That,” she says, flipping a page, “was a girl trying to protect herself.”

Chandler blinks. “What?”

Now she looks at him. “She’s pulling back. Because she’s getting too attached. Because you make her feel everything and you haven’t done a damn thing about it.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Okay, but--I only told her about that dream because she was clearly embarrassed she had one about me. I was trying to--” He trails off, gesturing helplessly. “I don't know, Show her she shouldn't be embarrassed about it.”

Monica raises a brow. “You described her grinding on you in the middle of Central Perk and called it ‘evening the score.’”

He swallows.

“She’s not just flustered, Chandler. She’s falling for you. And whether you want to admit it or not, you’re falling too.”

He looks down at his coffee. His expression shifts--somewhere between guilt and realization.

Monica softens. “I know you’re scared. But if you’re not going to show up for her… you need to let her go. Because this in-between thing? It’s messing with her head.”

Silence.

He nods once. Then again, slower. Like he’s trying to make it stick.

Monica picks up her magazine again.

“I like her,” she says, voice quieter now. “Don’t screw this up.”

Your bedroom door is cracked open to let the light of the living room flow in. Your room is dim and quiet, except for the soft, orchestral swell of Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me. The first two minutes-- the lonely piano, the rising strings--are still going.

You’re already dressed for sleep, lying on your back in bed, staring at the ceiling, not really thinking. Just existing in it, appreciating the genius of The Smiths, floating in that weird place between exhaustion and too-awake.

A soft knock. Then Chandler’s voice, tentative:

“Hey. You decent?”

You don’t move. “That’s a weird question to ask me at midnight.”

He opens the door halfway. “Right. Okay. New question--am I gonna get murdered if I come in?”

You lift your head a little to squint at him. “Not if you bring snacks.”

He takes that as a yes and slips in, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He notices the music, makes a face.

“Oh, this one,” he says, nodding toward the speakers. “The Smiths song with two full minutes of… dramatic nothing.”

You sit up a little, tucking a knee under yourself. “It’s a build-up. It’s beautiful.”

Chandler raises both brows like that’s debatable. “Sure, if your idea of ‘beautiful’ is prolonged emotional dread.”

You narrow your eyes. “David Bowie said it was his favorite Smiths song.”

He falters. “Damn it. Now if I make fun of it, I feel like I’m disrespecting Bowie.”

“Exactly,” you say, smug. “Bow down.”

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No further Bowie blasphemy.”

The orchestral swell finally dissolves, and the real song begins--Morrissey’s voice aching through the quiet.

Chandler fidgets a little, hands in his pockets. “I, uh… just wanted to say sorry. For yesterday.”

You look over, surprised. “For what?”

“I don’t know, being weird? Talking about your dream-voice like it was the highlight of my year?”

You snort softly. “It was a weird conversation.”

“Yeah. And I’ve had a lot of those.”

You hesitate, watching him.

“It wasn’t bad,” you say, slowly. “Just… caught me off guard.”

He nods, but doesn't say anything. The song drifts on for a moment, heavy with things neither of you will say.

You lie back again, voice soft now. “It’s not just that it surprised me. It’s that nobody’s ever really talked to me like that before.”

Chandler turns, eyebrows knitting. "Like what?"

“Like they wanted me,” you murmur. “Like they actually thought I was… hot, or something.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out small.

Chandler’s smile falters. His voice is gentler when it comes.

“Well,” he says awkwardly, “dream-you was… extremely hot.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He fidgets again, clearly fighting every instinct to either flee or make a joke.

“But also, like… not just hot,” he adds quickly. “You were--you are--you know. Great. Or whatever.”

You turn your head on the pillow to look at him. “You really nailed the delivery on that one.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’ve been practicing in the mirror. It’s a miracle I’m single.”

You snort, biting back a smile.

He walks over and sits at the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle it too much. His voice is quieter now.

“I wasn’t trying to mess with you, you know. I mean, I was--obviously--but not in a mean way. It just… came out.”

You nod. “I know.”

The Smiths fade out.

And then, like a gentle breath in the silence, Bowie starts--Life on Mars?

You both go still for a second, listening.

Chandler glances toward the speakers, then at you. “Okay, you’ve won me back.”

You smile faintly. “Figured I would.”

He shifts like he might get up, then doesn’t.

You stay quiet together. The room fills with Bowie’s voice, rich and strange and sad.

You don’t talk about what you are to each other.

You don’t talk about what any of it means.

You just exist in it, side by side.

Not touching.

Not speaking.

But not alone.

You wake up warm. Really warm. There’s a solid weight at your back, a steady breath ghosting the curve of your neck.

And an arm--long, familiar, heavy--slung over your waist. Fingers curled lazily near the hem of your underwear.

Your eyes fly open.

You glance down: oversized tee that doesn't technically belong to you and the same soft cotton underwear you wore to bed. His hand isn’t exactly inappropriate--but it’s… ambitious.

You tense.

Behind you, Chandler stirs. Nuzzles closer in his sleep like you’re a pillow with a great personality.

You twist in his hold and slap at his arm.

“Chandler,” you whisper harshly. “Wake up. Move.”

He groans softly. “No, Mom... Five more minutes…”

“Chandler!”

He startles awake--blinking rapidly, lifting his head from where it had been half-tucked into your shoulder. “What--what time is it?”

You grab your alarm clock. “8:03.”

He jerks upright, suddenly wide-eyed. “Okay! Okay, nothing happened! Right? Right?”

“Yes,” you snap. “Now get out before Monica comes in and makes this a thing.”

“Is it not already a thing?” he mutters, pushing the blanket off and stumbling toward the door.

You fling a pillow at his back. “Go.”

He opens the bedroom door and walks out into the apartment--hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, sock missing.

Silence. Then:

“Well, well, well…” Joey drawls from the arm of the couch, a slow grin spreading across his face like it’s Christmas morning.

Phoebe perks up, eyes wide. “Ooooh. Someone’s doing the walk of shame.”

Ross squints at Chandler. “Dude. Did you actually…?”

Chandler blinks, momentarily frozen in the center of the room like a deer caught in four judgmental headlights. “I was asleep.”

Phoebe hums, unconvinced. “That’s not a no.”

Joey leans forward, elbows on knees. “You’re glowing, bro.”

Monica plops beside Joey, mug in hand, raising an eyebrow. “Did you finally make a move? Is she secretly into it? Tell me everything.”

Ross grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, hey--good for you if something happened. Just, uh… maybe use a sock next time, alright?”

Joey bursts out laughing. “Too late for socks, man.”

Phoebe nods sagely. “There was definitely spooning.”

Chandler looks around at all of them, deadpan. “If I throw myself out the window, will you all just assume it was a sex injury?”

Before anyone can answer, your bedroom door creaks open. You walk out, now fully dressed--jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt tucked in just enough to give the impression that you tried, even though your hair’s still a little rumpled and your face betrays the stress of a rushed morning.

You don’t look at any of them.

You walk straight past--shoulder brushing Chandler’s as you go--murmuring a quick, “Excuse me,” before disappearing into the bathroom.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Everyone turns to Chandler.

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “So… who wants pancakes?”

You shut the door behind you and lean against it like you’re in a horror movie. Staring at your reflection, you look for clues. Signs. Evidence of the very not platonic way you woke up.

Your shirt’s still rumpled. You can see the faint line where Chandler’s arm had rested across your waist.

You groan and splash cold water on your face, then fumble around for a hand towel. Your movements are fast, messy, pointless. Like you can scrub the memory off your skin.

You brush your teeth as you spiral.

“This is fine,” you think. “Totally fine. Just… friends. Friends cuddle sometimes. Friends fall asleep practically on top of each other. Friends--ugh. Why do I suck at this?"

The faucet drips once. And then again.

And then it starts.

Your focus shifts. Locks in on your reflection. On your outfit. The way the jeans don’t sit quite right today. The way your t-shirt bunches weirdly at your hips. Your expression sharpens. The panic doesn’t disappear--it just relocates.

You burst out of the bathroom like you’re being chased.

The whole group turns to look.

But you don’t stop.

You march straight across the apartment, throw your bedroom door open, and call out, “Pheebs! I need help.”

Phoebe pops up from the couch like a meerkat. “Ooh, is it boy stuff or clothes stuff?”

“Clothes,” you snap, already halfway into your room. “Maybe both. Probably both. Just--come on!”

Phoebe perks up like she just heard her name in a séance. She practically skips after you.

Behind her, Joey raises his brows. “What just happened?”

Monica doesn’t look up from her mug. “Meltdown number one of the day.”

Ross frowns. “Is this about school or Chandler?”

There’s a beat.

Then Chandler, very quietly: “…yes.”

Inside your room, Phoebe’s already throwing open your closet like it’s a treasure chest. “Okay. Wardrobe emergency. Definitely an emotional crisis disguised as fashion panic. I’m into it. What’s the vibe--hot nerd? Effortless temptress? You want to look like you don’t care, or like you care so much you’ve gone full feral?”

You flop onto the bed with a groan. “I want to look like I didn’t wake up basically spooning my best friend and then pretend it meant nothing.”

Phoebe pauses.

“Ooh,” she says at last.

Then she claps her hands. “Alright! Let’s start with black. Black screams ‘don’t talk to me’ and ‘I have secrets.’ Perfect.”

You bury your face in your pillow and let out a muffled scream.

Phoebe pulls out three outfits like she’s summoning weapons from an armory. “Okay, this one’s subtle chaos. This one says ‘weaponized thighs.’ And this one? This one says ‘you’ll cry about it later.’”

You lift your head slowly. “…Go on.”

She holds up a black mini skirt between two fingers like it’s a sacred object. “Ooh, this one. Very ‘I’m hot but don’t have time to explain.’ Pair it with those sheer tights and that black scoop neck--bam. You’re a mystery with legs.”

You eye the skirt like it’s radioactive.

“That one?” you ask, voice tight.

Phoebe beams. “Yes! It’s sultry, it’s severe, it’s subtle. And short. It’ll distract everyone--including you--from your internal screaming.”

You hesitate.

It’s the skirt. His skirt. The one he described in the dream. The one he said made you look hot.

No. No, no time for that. You’re spiraling and late and the morning is already weird.

You grab it. “Fine. Out. I need to get dressed.”

Phoebe waltzes out like a fairy godmother. “Don’t forget jewelry--and lip balm! Shiny lips are powerful.”

Back in the living room, everyone’s chatting again--well, mostly.

Chandler keeps glancing at your door like a dog who heard the treat jar.

And then you appear.

Mini skirt. Black tights. That clingy black top that dips just enough to tempt but not enough to comment on.

Chandler’s face changes instantly.

Not ogling--just a brief, stunned wideness in his eyes before you’re moving past him like a storm system.

“Gotta go!” you call, grabbing your bag. “If I don’t run I’ll be late, and if I’m late again, my psych prof’s going to use me as a case study.”

You’re halfway into your coat and hopping into your boots at the same time. “Bye! Thanks Pheebs!!"

The door slams behind you before anyone can speak.

There’s a long pause.

Joeys eyes go wide. “Did it get hotter in here, or did I just blackout?”

Ross frowns. “What was that? I’ve never seen her run.”

Monica eyes Chandler, careful. “You okay, buddy?”

Chandler blinks again. “I--uh--yep. Totally normal morning. Just your average Tuesday. Or… whatever day it is.”

Phoebe sips her tea and smiles. “Her aura’s basically on fire.”

Monica mutters into her mug. “So’s his.”

Chandler turns. “What?”

Monica shrugs. “Nothing.”

----