#djo fandom

The last note hangs in the air longer than it should.

Joe lets it ring out, fingers still pressed to the strings of his red guitar, the sound vibrating through the venue before slowly dissolving into silence. For a brief moment, he doesn’t move at all as if the entire room is holding its breath with him.

Then the crowd explodes.

Cheers crash over the stage, lights flashing, voices screaming his name, the kind of noise that feels physical, that rattles your ribs and settles deep in your chest. Warm gold, red and deep blue lights wash over everything, and for a second it feels unreal, like the world has tilted slightly off its axis.

Joe lifts his head, smiling, breathless. He says a few thank-yous to the city, to the crowd, to the night that’s clearly coming to an end…

But the crowd doesn’t let him leave. The chants start almost immediately. Clapping, stomping, voices rising together like a wave.

“Encore!”

“Djo!”

“Chateau!”

You’re still pressed against the barricade in the front row, hands wrapped tight around the cold metal, chest rising too fast. The show has lasted slightly more than two hours, your body exhausted in the best way, ears ringing, heart full and sore all at once.

You’ve been here the entire night. Every song. Every pause. Every breath between lyrics, every quiet joke he’s shared with the audience.

The Another Bite Tour has felt like something you’ve been carrying with you for months, city to city, videos replayed, lyrics memorized until they settled somewhere in your heart. And now it’s all ending, and you don’t know why that thought alone makes your eyes burn.

Joe smiles at the crowd, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back slightly, damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to him. He looks almost surprised by how loud the room still is.

He lifts a hand, laughing softly into the mic. “Alright,” he says, breathless. “You asked real nice.” The cheering swells again.

He reaches for the red guitar, settling it more comfortably against his body and then his gaze drifts, slow and searching, across the front rows.

And then it stops. On you. His eyes find yours.

It’s impossible, really. A sea of faces, phones raised high, lights flashing everywhere. And yet you feel it instantly, the moment his attention settles on you and doesn’t move away. His expression shifts, just slightly. Softer, curious even.

You don’t realize your eyes watery, vision blurs and you blink hard, somewhat embarrassed, ducking your head a little. Just quiet tears, the kind that slip out when you’re overwhelmed, happy, sad, and don’t know how else to hold everything in.

Joe’s expression changes to something more focused. Like recognition. Because he does recognize you.

Different cities. Same face. Almost same place near the barricade, close to the stage. The same quiet intensity, singing every word like it means something personal. He noticed you earlier tonight too, caught your eye once, then again. And now here you are, shaking slightly, trying not to be seen.

He doesn’t say anything yet. He adjusts the guitar strap, steps back toward the mic.

“This one’s for you,” he says simply, naming the city.

The opening notes of “Chateau (Feel Alright)” spill out, warm and familiar, wrapping around the room like a memory you didn’t realize you missed this badly.

Your breath catches. The song hits harder live, fuller. The lights soften into gold and amber, and Joe’s voice carries that ache, that trying-to-feel-alright feeling, straight through your chest.

You sing along quietly, tears gathering again, not from sadness but from how deeply this music lives in you. How much do you understand and relate to his songs. You really do love it. You really do love this.

Joe glances around and then at you again.

Every time he sings the word feel, it’s like he’s grounding himself, and somehow grounding you too. Like the whole room is swaying together, suspended in something fragile and gentle.

By the final chorus, you’re not really crying anymore, just overwhelmed, shoulders curled inward, feeling small beneath the weight of it all.

Joe sees. When he sings the last line, his eyes close, brows drawn together in something tired and tender all at once.

The song doesn’t end immediately.

The outro stretches on, guitar ringing, drums slow and steady. Joe steps back from the mic, letting the sound breathe. Then he slips the guitar strap over his shoulder. Carefully, deliberately, he sets the red guitar down behind him on the stage floor, leaning it against the amp.

The music fades and crowd erupts. And Joe looks straight at you. A small smile curves at the corner of his mouth. He lifts his hand, pointing gently, not teasing, not demanding, but inviting.

“Hey,” he says into the mic, voice calm and warm. “You.”

Two fingers curl inward in a soft, unmistakable motion meant only for you.

Your heart stops. You glance around, stunned. The people beside you scream. Someone touches your arm. Security is already moving.

Joe crouches at the edge of the stage, lowering himself closer as the noise swells.

Your heart stumbles as security guides you forward, hands steady and careful, helping you over the barrier and up toward the stage.

When you finally reach the top, Joe reaches out instinctively, taking your hand to steady you. The cameraman walks around you.

His grip is warm and real. He helps you up the last step, fingers tightening slightly, and for a moment you forget how to breathe, the lights, the band behind you, the impossible number of people watching.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time.

The crowd is deafening, so he leans toward your ear, shielding it with his hand.

“I’ve seen you before,” he murmurs. “You’ve been coming to the shows. What’s your name?”

You tell him, breath shaking. His eyes soften, like he’s committing it to memory.

“You always stand right here,” he adds gently, trying to make you feel less nervous, he smiling. “I remembered you.”

Your fingers tighten around his. Maybe it’s your face, or the way you listen, or something you don’t even know you carry, but somehow, he saw you.

“You okay?” he asks, genuine.

You nod softly smiling.

He squeezes your hand once. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

Then he turns you slightly so your back faces the audience, his body angled protectively in front of you.

And just like that, with the lights warm on your skin and his presence steady, you breathe again, practically not noticing the cameras around you.

He steps closer, lowering his voice as he says your name, careful and gentle.

“It’s the final night of the tour,” he says. “The crew’s capturing everything, photos, video, little moments for the archives. I wanted to choose someone from the crowd.”

His gaze stays on you, steady. You nod and he smiles, reassuring. Music begins again behind you, soft guitar, a hint of piano. Cameras flash. Phones lift higher.

You stand side by side at first. Then Joe’s arm slides around your waist, firm but gentle, pulling you closer. You turn into him without hesitation, arms wrapping around his torso. His let out a chuckle and his other hand finds yours, fingers tracing slowly before lacing together.

The crowd loses its mind.

His scent surrounds you, clean, warm, something like wood and waterfalls and tenderness. It feels safe, almost unreal.

You sway together gently, like the song belongs to the two of you. Joe rests his head lightly against yours, arms tightening just enough to ground you.

When the music fades, the crowd screams more loudly. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Joe leans in, shielding your ear again.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he says softly. “I believe in you. You’re amazing.”

These words are exactly what you have wanted to hear for so long, but who would have thought that it was Joe who would say them, as if he knew what was going on in your head, your soul and what you were facing in life.

You whisper, breathless, “Thank you.” He laughs softly, noticing the tears, and turns to the mic. “I really hope those are happy tears.” The crowd erupts.

Joe turns back to you, hands rising to your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes as he wipes the tears away slow, careful, very focused and sincere, like time doesn’t exist.

He cups your face and presses a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.

The venue explodes. And Joe laughs.

You laugh, cry, breathe all at once.

You hug one last time, he leans in first, resting his head on top of yours, arms wrapped around you tight. When you separate, he nods, eyes looking toward the side of the backstage, hinting at you to go behind the scenes. You nod back with a smile.

He lets go of your hand slowly, holding on as long as he can. Your fingers linger together until the last possible second.

Behind you, the crowd is stunned. Joe turns back to the mic, smiling wide.

“You were loud tonight,” he screams, naming the city. “Thank you.”

Lights explode into color. The show ends. And then, to the sounds of a happy crowd, almost running, he disappears backstage right after you.

My friend pulled her face out of the pillow and stared at me.

— You're thinking about it.

I was, in fact, thinking about exactly what she was talking about.

Joe Keery.

Joe fucking Keery.

Joe Keery, my friend.

Joe Keery, the man I fall asleep thinking about and wake up remembering.

Joe, Joe, Joe.

It was getting ridiculous.

— I am not!

— You are! You think too loudly when you're thinking about him.

— Oh, fuck off, Sadie.

I said, becoming sad about my own situation, burying my face back into the pillow and huffing while I heard her laughter.

— AHA. The fourth time today. You owe me fifty bucks.

— Shut up, you made that bet by yourself.

I retorted.

She rolled her eyes and tossed a cushion at me.

— Fine — she said, sighing. — What exactly was the thought that deprived both you and me of a wonderful night's sleep?

I stayed silent for a moment.

— I don’t know… — I murmured. — Any news about him being with someone who isn't one of his sisters or...or i don't know, a friend, whatever, it haunts me. Or the idea of people finding out he’s on Raya, which he is. Or the idea of… everything.

Sadie looked at me intently. No jokes this time.

— You are seriously in love with him.

— I can't take it anymore — I blurted out before I could censor myself. — Feeling jealous of someone I have no right to be jealous of. Like, I don’t even have the right to feel this. If he’s going to be happy, good for him, but ugh… why couldn't it be someone ugly?

— Does he deserve someone ugly?

Sadie asked, already knowing that wasn't what I meant.

She laughed softly when I shot a death glare in her direction.

— No. Because he’s hot and deserves to be with someone hot — I sighed. — But, like… Sabrina Carpenter is surreal. She’s an angel. I’m not an angel.

I closed my eyes and groaned, rubbing my hand over my face.

— You are an angel.

— Not like her — I complained. — She handcuffed him. That still haunts me.

Sadie stayed silent for a few seconds, watching me.

— Then why don't you just tell him?

I opened my eyes slowly.

— Because I don’t like the idea of ruining our friendship over something I know won't be reciprocated.

— Do you know or are you just afraid?

She asked, far too calm.

I swallowed hard.

— Both.

I turned onto my side, staring at the wall.

— I’d rather deal with this knot in my chest than look at his face and realize I was just one more thing he never thought about wanting. At least this way… I still have him in my life.

The room went quiet. Sadie sighed and moved closer, lying down beside me.

— Sometimes — she said softly — what hurts more isn't losing the person. It’s spending your whole life pretending you never wanted them.

I closed my eyes again.

— Fifth time.

She added after a second.

— Fuck off.

She laughed, and even with a heavy heart, I laughed too. Because, deep down, I already knew: it wasn’t the handcuffs, or Sabrina, or Raya. It was the fact that I loved someone in silence—and no silence was ever light.

Sadie turned toward the ceiling, hands clasped behind her head, ignoring my previous insult. Her tone changed; the betting game was over, and now she had that voice of someone about to speak a truth you’d spent weeks trying to bury.

— Listen — she began, her voice soft but firm. — You say it won't be reciprocated, but have you ever looked at the way he looks at you? Joe is a nice guy, he doesn’t treat everyone with the same... delicacy he treats you with.

— He’s like that with his sisters.

I muttered into the pillow.

— You aren’t his sister. And if you keep up this "best friend" act, you’re going to end up being a bridesmaid at a wedding that should have been yours.

She sat up, forcing me to look at her.

— You need to tell him. And I’m telling you this for real now because this is hurting you. It’s not so he gives you an engagement ring right now, but so you can finally breathe.

I felt my stomach do a somersault.

— Breathe? — I repeated, unconvinced. — It sounds dramatic when you put it like that.

— It doesn't just sound it — Sadie replied. — It is.

I pulled the pillow away from my face and stared at the ceiling again, blinking far too fast.

— I’m going to ask ChatGPT how to confess in a way that’s easy and simple.

I joked, and Sadie laughed, hitting me in the face with a pillow.

— Hey!

I protested, laughing and trying to ward off the pillow she was using as a weapon to suppress my joke.

Two weeks had passed, but the entire weight of those conversations with Sadie seemed to have piled up on my shoulders as I stared at myself in the rearview mirror. There I was, fixing a stray strand of hair and retouching my gloss for the tenth time, trying to ignore the fact that my hands were shaking slightly. Which was ridiculous. I’d known Joe for four years. This shouldn't be happening.

Maybe it was because he’d just gotten out of a shitty relationship—well, it wasn't all shitty, but the end of it was—with a shitty girlfriend who cheated on him. That certainly didn't help. But none of that changed the fact that my feelings had spiraled out of control in an almost embarrassing way.

Beside me, driving with the tranquility of someone who had nothing emotionally at stake, was Dean. A friend from the set who became a friend for life. A stuntman in some productions, a walking punchline in almost every situation. Dean always loved music, but coincidentally, he’d never heard any of Joe’s stuff. So I made sure to fix that, shoving the songs down his throat in a subconscious attempt to give Joe another fan who didn't just see him as Steve Harrington, but as someone who existed beyond that. Two songs were all it took.

When Joe sent the tickets, it seemed like the perfect choice. To bring someone I loved, someone safe—and, most importantly, someone to act as a shield. That way, I wouldn't be alone with my thoughts. Or with Joe. At least not too soon.

— You look beautiful, you know?

Dean commented, without taking his eyes off the road.

— Dean…

I answered, automatically.

— No, no "Dean" today — he laughed. — Are you a little tense? Yes. But beautiful.

I sighed, dropping the mirror into my lap.

— I’m not tense.

— You retouched your gloss ten times — he countered. — That’s "tense" in body language.

— Shut up.

He laughed, satisfied.

Inside, the sound vibrated in my chest before I even located the stage. When the lights went down and Joe walked out, something in me simply gave way. It wasn't excitement. It was recognition. It was him. Whole. Alive. Too close for someone who occupied so much space inside me without ever being named.

I tried to watch like anyone else. I swear I tried. But every gesture of his carried an involuntary intimacy. The way he closed his eyes during certain verses. The pause between one song and another. The throwaway laugh, as if he were talking to someone specific.

At some point, he looked. And he didn't look away. My stomach dropped.

— Okay — Dean murmured, almost laughing. — Now I get it.

— Don’t even start.

I pleaded, without taking my eyes off the stage.

Because every antic, every smile, every wink, every thrust he gave that poor mic stand—which I wished were me—every note he played and sang... I wanted all of it.

I bit my lower lip while taking a few photos of him as he sang "Fly." I wasn't a professional or anything, nor did I work for his crew, but Joe liked the candid photos I took of him whenever I felt like it, so I always did it gladly when I went to see him play. And like tonight, I was always in ecstasy, capturing the moment when his eyes look at nothing and another where he simply closes them and throws his head back. In those moments, my mind takes me to the worst places on earth—hell. Because I imagine him coming and... well, that's not good.

When the show ended, I grabbed Dean's hand and pulled him backstage, trying to go on autopilot, thinking I was just going to see a normal friend.

The way to the dressing room felt longer than usual. My boots echoed on the concrete floor, a dry sound that competed with the frantic beat of my heart. I was squeezing Dean's hand so hard he’d probably lose circulation in his fingers, but he didn't complain. He just kept up with me, acting as the anchor I desperately needed so I wouldn't float away from myself.

— Breathe — Dean whispered near my ear. — You’re acting like I’m the superstar’s super-loyal friend.

— I’m fine.

I shot back, without looking back.

We reached the door. I knew the ritual: the smell of sweat, the post-show adrenaline lingering in the air, the sound of the crew's laughter. When I opened the door, I paused at the frame and smiled at the chaos reigning inside.

Joe was sitting on a worn leather sofa, a towel around his neck and a water bottle in his hand. He was breathless, his hair plastered to his forehead—the exact image of what I’d just seen through the lens, but now without the camera's barrier. Without the protection of distance. I took the opportunity to grab the camera and aim it at him from that angle; I’d send all of these to his producer.

— So good.

I said with a naturalness that didn't match my heartbeat when he saw me there and stood up after I took the photo of him sitting.

— My girl came.

He smiled at me, and I pointed the camera at him once more, taking a photo of his smiling face as his eyes pierced the lens.

— Hi, Joe-Joe.

I said, and he hugged me, despite a slight protest from me that lasted only a second.

— Hi, beautiful.

He said, and I felt my hair sticking to his sweat.

— You are sooooo sweaty.

I said with a smile, being dramatic.

— I know, sorry.

He laughed, far too cute, but instead of pulling away, he squeezed the hug for another second.

When he finally let go, he didn't retreat fully. He stayed there, hands resting lightly on my forearms, eyes shining with the adrenaline still rushing through his veins.

— It was worth it, wasn't it?

He asked, referring to the show.

— It’s always worth it.

I replied, trying to keep my voice steady while feeling the trail of his heat on my skin.

— But today you were... different. Louder.

— Something about the crowd tonight.

He winked, and only then did he seem to notice Dean, who was watching the scene like he was seeing the best movie of the season.

— And you brought company.

He said, extending a hand to Dean while still keeping one hand on my arm.

— Dean. Man, the show was badass.

— Hey, are you paying child support?

I asked Joe, who looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

— You love fucking that mic stand, don't you?

Joe let out a laugh so loud that some crew members in the back of the dressing room shot us curious glances. He threw his head back, his messy hair swaying, and the sound of his laughter was like music—but the kind that leaves your legs weak.

— The mic stand doesn't complain; it takes what I give it.

Joe whispered near my ear.

— So full of yourself.

— I rolled my eyes.

— Does she annoy you like this too, or am I the only one who has to put up with it?

Joe asked jokingly, looking at Dean, who just shook his head, laughing briefly.

— No, man. You’re the only one.

Dean said, smiling at Joe, who then turned his gaze back to me, licked his lips, and rubbed his chin.

— Are you guys staying for a bit?

He asked both of us, but his eyes were only on me.

And once again, my heart did a backflip. Which was stupid because obviously he would ask me; I was friends with both of them there, not the other way around.

— If you…— I started, looking at Dean, who gave me a death stare for a second, making me look back at Joe, smiling. — Let's go. I need to show you the hideous photos I took of some guy today.

— Let’s laugh at him together, girl.

He did his "gay best friend" voice, and I laughed.

Joe turned before we’d even taken two full steps into the space where the rest of the crew was scattered—instruments lying around, half-empty cups, loose laughter.

— Yo, guys, this is Dean.

Dean raised a hand in a half-shy, half-automatic wave, and immediately someone struck up a conversation. Within seconds, he was surrounded, laughing, answering, gesturing more than he usually did. I watched for a moment, far too satisfied with the fact that he’d been absorbed into the group effortlessly.

Joe took advantage of the collective distraction and went back to the leather sofa, sinking into it as if it were his natural place in the world. I went right after him and practically threw myself down beside him, pulling the camera from my bag. It wasn't professional—far from it—but it was mine. My way of keeping pieces of the world before they escaped.

— Let’s see just how terrifying this guy’s level is.

I made a dramatic pause and looked at him, raising a hand near his face.

— Are you sure? You might have nightmares all night.

Or the wettest dreams of your life, I thought automatically, nearly rolling my eyes at myself before pressing the camera button. The screen lit up, and I slid my finger to the photo. Joe leaned in to see better, his shoulder brushing mine again—too casual for someone who had just completely invaded my personal space. He crinkled his nose for a second... and then smiled at me, chuckling.

— Was the guy, what? Coming during the show? What the fuck is this?

I choked on a laugh, bringing my hand to my mouth, trying not to make too much noise.

— Shut up — I whispered, already swiping to the next photo. — You’re sick. But I did a favor for the many people who will see this photo.

Joe let out a laugh that vibrated through the back of the sofa, slapping his own knee with his free hand while shaking his head. He knew perfectly well it was him there, frozen in that expression of pure musical ecstasy, but pretending we were analyzing an exotic specimen of a "rock star" was our favorite game.

— Ah, I see. So this is the community service you provide? — He leaned in even closer, the weight of his body pressing mine against the leather. — Recording the moments where I totally lose my dignity so the rest of the world can... what? Study me?

— Exactly — I retorted, feeling his heat radiate into my arm. — It’s an anthropological study on how Joe Keery transforms into a possessed creature when he holds a guitar. Look at this one.

I swiped to the next image. It was a side profile. The blue light of the spotlight outlined his jaw, his mouth half-open, sweat dripping down his temple—an image of vulnerability and power that made my hands sweat just looking at it. Joe went silent for a second too long. The mocking glint in his eyes gave way to something denser, darker. He stretched out a finger and touched the camera screen, right over his own image, but his eyes moved up to mine.

— You make me look like... — he began, his voice losing its playful tone, dropping into that raspy frequency he only used when he was serious. — You make me look like someone I’d like to know.

I swallowed hard. The noise of the dressing room—Dean’s loud conversation with the bassist, the sound of ice clinking in cups—seemed to fade into distant white noise.

— You already know him, Joe — I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady even though my heart was hammering against my ribs. — I just press the button. You’re the one who does the rest.

— No — he disagreed, his voice almost a whisper now. He took his hand off the camera and placed it over mine, his fingers—calloused from guitar strings—brushing against my sensitive skin. — It’s your gaze that’s here. It’s the way you see me. No one else takes photos of me like this.

I felt the knot in my chest, the one Sadie mentioned, tighten in a way that hurt and comforted at the same time. I wanted to say so much. I wanted to say that I took photos like that because I spent every second he was on stage trying to memorize every inch of his existence. I wanted to say that the "good light" I mentioned earlier was actually the glow he emanated that had been blinding me since the day I met him.

Joe moistened his lips, his gaze flicking quickly down to my mouth before returning to my eyes. The tension was so obvious that I was sure if anyone looked at us now, they’d see sparks flying off the sofa.

— Hey, Joe! — The producer's voice cut through the air like a blade, making us both jump ever so slightly. — Five minutes until we clear out, man. The cleaning crew is already at the door.

— Keep those photos in a vault — he joked, though his gaze was still heavy. — If that guy finds out you have evidence against him, he’ll have to kidnap you to ensure your silence.

I laughed, putting the camera away with trembling hands.

— Let him try — I replied, trying to regain my "cool best friend" pose.

Joe reached out a hand to help me up from the sofa. When I took it, he didn't just pull me up; he pulled me close, leaving our faces inches apart for an eternal second.

— I will try — he whispered, winking at me before turning to Dean. — So, Dean! Have you landed a record deal yet, or are you still just hanging backstage?

As he walked toward my friend, I stood there, trying to remember how to breathe. Sadie was right. The silence was getting too heavy to carry alone.

Resting my hands on my thighs, I looked forward as Joe moved in front of me, adjusting the mic on his shirt. When he sat back down, the producer began.

— Alright, everyone. In a final vote on who our fans wanted to see in an "Ask Me Anything" for no particular reason, you two were the top picks, so… we brought you back once more.

— That’s great, — Joe said. — They still like us.

— Let’s get this started then, — he said, looking at the cue cards, half in his hand and half in mine. — "What was your first impression of each other?"

Joe read the first question and looked at me sincerely.

— I thought you were one of those spoiled girls.

— That’s so unfair! Everyone tells me that. They think I’m a bitch before they get to know me.

— You had a serious face and I judged you too quickly, but five minutes later, I found out you were actually like a little puppy.

— When I met you, I wasn't really thinking. I was lowkey freaking out inside and so nervous, so I thought, "He’s a serious guy, I’m not even going to blink around him."

— And you actually talked a lot when we met, so you just made that up in your head.

— "What’s each other’s most annoying habit?"

Joe looked at me seriously, but with a glint of humor in his eyes.

— Joe is stubborn. Most of the time he listens and he isn't bossy, but when he decides to be, Jesus Christ, give me strength. — I said, throwing my head back, and Joe smiled at me, shrugging.

— I can be bossy. I think your most annoying habit is that you think too loud. I know when you're thinking about something even when you're quiet.

— Holy shit, it irritates you that I think? Our friendship is over, Joe.

— Not like that! That came out wrong, not like that, — he protested, laughing as he ducked his head.

— "What was the most embarrassing moment you’ve had together?"

I read the card, and Joe laughed before I even answered.

— Oh, easy… that time you spilled coffee on me in the middle of an event.

— Oh my god, — I said, putting a hand to my forehead as I remembered.

— Okay, first let me explain myself: the floor at that place was extremely slippery on the soles of my shoes. I tripped, and the coffee flew out of my hand and landed all over Joe. So, we went to a bathroom to try and clean him up. I was feeling bad enough, so I went to help, but the floor… so slippery. I slipped right in front of Joe. At that exact moment, someone walked into the bathroom and it looked like I was begging for my life before a king.

Joe laughed so hard he had to lean forward, lightly slapping his hand against his thigh as he tried to catch his breath. The producer and the techs behind the cameras couldn't hold back their laughter either; the image was too visual to ignore.

— You weren't just begging for your life, — Joe added, getting his voice back and wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. — You looked like a character out of a Greek tragedy. And the worst part was the face of the person who walked in. They looked at me, looked at you on your knees on the coffee-soaked floor, and walked out without saying a word. They probably still think I’m a tyrant to this day.

— I never wore those shoes again, — I confessed, shaking my head and trying to stay serious. — They were banned from my closet. I felt like if I took one more step in them, I’d end up breaking a tooth.

Joe picked up the next card, still with a lingering smile. The mood was light, but the next question shifted the tone slightly.

— "Who is more likely to send a late-night text to vent about something random?"

He didn't even hesitate. He slowly turned the card toward me with a "don’t even try to deny it" look.

— You, — he said, in an almost tender tone. — Three in the morning, and my phone vibrates. I think it’s an emergency, but it’s actually you asking if I think penguins have knees or sending me a video of a raccoon eating grapes.

— Hey! — I protested, laughing and adjusting myself in my chair. — In my defense, if I’m awake thinking about it, you should be too. And technically, penguins do have knees; I looked it up after you didn't answer me.

— See? — He pointed to the camera. — Puppy. I told you.

— "If you were in a horror movie, who would die first and who would be the villain?"

He read it, and I bit my lower lip, looking at him.

— We’d be the duo that doesn't die. Then at the end, you’d turn on me and kill me.

Joe let out a loud laugh and shook his head, leaning back on the studio sofa.

— That is so specific! — he said, pointing at me. — Why do you always cast me as the traitor? I’m the guy who carries the flashlights and the spare batteries, and you turn me into the villain who stabs you in the back in the final act?

— Because you have that "good guy" face that hides evil plans, Joe! — I replied, gesturing dramatically. — The audience would love the plot twist. "Oh, Joe is so loyal," and then, boom, you lock me in the attic with the monster just to save your own skin.

— I wouldn't do that, — he protested, trying to look offended, but his smile gave him away. — I’d probably die trying to save you from some brilliant plan you came up with that went wrong.

— Shut up! I’d have great ideas because I’m a great writer.

— Alright, little drama queen, — he said, picking up another card. — "Who would be the ideal boyfriend/girlfriend for each other in your view?"

Joe gave a low whistle, that sound people make when they know the ground just got slippery. He spun the cue card between his fingers, looking at the ceiling for a second before locking eyes with me with a challenging little smile.

— Oh, the fans want to play Cupid now? Fine, — he said, settling into the sofa. — It has to be someone with the patience of a Tibetan monk. Someone who doesn't mind being woken up at 4 AM to discuss if seahorses have consciousness. And, above all, they have to know how to cook, because if it were up to her, they’d live on cereal and iced coffee forever. Oh, and they have to know how to laugh at her blunders without making her feel bad. Basically, a saint.

— I’m a delight of a girlfriend, Joe, — I said, rolling my eyes.

— And you, Y/N?

The producer asked me.

I took a deep breath, looked at Joe, then looked down.

— Joe… Joe deserves someone who is there for him the way he’s going to be there for her, because that’s just how he is. And it has to be someone who listens to all his problems even when he isn't saying anything, just feeling them. She has to be ready to listen to crazy ideas and accept things like… if one day he thinks about moving to Amsterdam or Copenhagen because he was there on tour and loved it. Someone who doesn't wear down his dreams just because they seem crazy.

Comments

@Millie:

THE SILENCE AT THE END.

@Millie:

He couldn’t even make a joke.

@Djohwq:

"Someone who feels what he’s feeling even if he doesn't say anything." She truly knows him.

@Joe.fans:

The look in her eyes while talking about him... 😭

@Btwclips:

Everyone stop freaking out. They’re just best friends! Obviously she knows him well, they’ve worked together for years. That kind of intimacy comes from going through a lot of shit together (like the coffee embarrassment). Don’t turn a beautiful friendship into a fanfic, it just makes things awkward between them. 🙄

@Xander:

THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER when she talked about not wearing down his dreams... he gave that smirk he only uses when he’s actually emotional. If this is "just friendship," then I’m a penguin without knees! 🐧

@analise_:

Guys, look at 12:45. When she starts talking about his dreams of living in Amsterdam, Y/N stops looking at the camera and looks STRAIGHT at her lap, then to the side. That’s a classic sign of emotional protection. She was speaking from the heart and got scared she gave away too much.

@Megg:

If that girl commenting about Y/N’s body language is right, my world is stopping.

@starlight_fan:

The comment about him being bossy was funny, but the way she talked about him at the end... "someone who listens to his problems even when he isn't saying anything." SHE IS THAT PERSON!

↪️ Reply from @Tet: RIGHT? You can see it on his face that he realized it at that exact moment. The vibe got so thick you could cut it with a knife. Even the producer went quiet.

@Sarah08:

You guys reach too much. They’re long-time work partners. She was only being deep because they’re real friends. If they were together, they’d be more uncomfortable, not laughing about spilling coffee in a bathroom.

↪️ Reply from @Missyelll: Friends don’t look at each other with that "you are my world" glint in their eyes, babe. Watch it again at 0.5x speed and come back.

@Choquei:

We came for the penguin with knees and left with our legs completely broken. How dare you, Y/N? You had no right to be that poetic.

@lucas_:

"I’m a delight of a girlfriend, Joe.", "Alright, little drama queen." THE NICKNAMES!! Their intimacy escalated so fast in this interview. I can't.

@Seb_barries:

Last time I saw them together, they barely touched. Today, Joe is practically invading her personal space and she doesn't even move away. They’re way too comfortable... 👀

@mariah_cloud:

"I thought he was serious, I wasn't even going to blink around him." Y/N 10 minutes later: Describes the guy's future in Amsterdam with more precision than his own mother would have. Definition of soulmates.

@Willie:

People see things where there’s nothing. She was just being sweet because he was sweet first calling her a puppy. It’s what friends do! If they were hooking up, the vibe would be awkward and heavy, not light like this.

↪️ Reply from @hannafether: Honey, the vibe GOT heavy at the end. You’re blind if you didn't see Joe’s face. He looked like he’d been punched.

Two weeks after our interview—the one that completely fried my brain’s chemistry. Joe and I were still fine, but after the entire internet saw the vulnerability reflected in my eyes while I described what he deserved, it created something palpable between us. Not an annoyance, but an understanding—like a massive white elephant in the room that neither of us would open our mouths to drive away.

Letting the dress fall over my body like velvet, I looked at myself once more, ready for this year's Grammys. I was always on the guest list because, let’s face it, I love music, and I love rooting for the people whose songs I listen to so much.

I wore a floor-length gown in a deep wine tone that hugged my body as if it had been custom-made. The bodice was structured with thin straps, and the fabric shimmered delicately, embroidered with tiny crystals that caught the light with every move. The waist was cinched, defining my silhouette, with a subtle detail in the center that elongated my torso and drew the eye down. The skirt started fitted and gradually opened into light layers of tulle, creating a fluid, dramatic effect as I walked. The fabric seemed to float around my legs, soft and ethereal, contrasting with the intensity of the color. It was a dress that made me feel elegant, powerful, and a bit mysterious—the kind that doesn't go unnoticed and demands posture, presence, and confidence.

All the performances were incredible; sitting near people I admired so much was surreal. Yet, the feeling of being seen and at the same time not being seen was awful. I applauded, whispered comments into the ear of the person next to me, and laughed when I was expected to laugh. Inside, however, everything felt slightly out of sync, as if I were half a second late to my own life.

That’s when I felt it before I saw it. That almost imperceptible shift in the air, as if the environment had reorganized itself.

I looked up, and there he was, a few rows ahead, leaning over to talk to someone, that crooked half-smirk appearing on his face. Joe. My stomach did that unpolite little flip, far too familiar to be ignored. He looked up by chance—or fate, I’ll never know—and found me.

It wasn't a quick glance. It wasn't casual. It was long enough to hurt a little.

He gave a small, restrained smile, like someone who knows exactly what they can’t say in public. I returned it the same way, maintaining the composure the dress demanded—back straight, chin up. Elegance on the outside. Inside, that white elephant was crashing into the walls.

— Are you okay?

Someone whispered beside me.

— Yeah.

I replied automatically. But I wasn't. Because there, surrounded by music, applause, and people I admired, all I could feel was that unspoken thing between the two of us, pulsing at the same rhythm as the stage lights. It wasn't longing. It wasn't pure desire. It was recognition. The uncomfortable certainty that something had changed and that pretending to be normal was becoming increasingly exhausting.

When his name echoed through the theater to announce the next category, my heart beat harder than it should have. I applauded. I looked ahead. I took a deep breath. And I knew, with an almost cruel clarity, that this night wasn't done testing me yet.

Later that night, at the after-party where I spent two hours, I saw Joe near Sabrina Carpenter. Her hand was on his forearm, and he was laughing as if he’d never seen blue eyes in his life. When I got home, I dropped my things on the living room sofa and looked at myself in my bedroom mirror. I was splendidly happy and, at the same time, so… empty. And it made no sense at all.

Around 4:00 AM, after tossing and turning on the mattress, I sat up, giving up on sleep. I grabbed my phone on autopilot. For the first time, I was following the advice Sadie had given me over a month ago—and if it didn't work, things couldn't get any worse.

— Hey, are you okay?

Joe’s voice came through the call, and I turned on the bedside lamp. Its warm yellow light should have made me feel cozy and comfortable, but all I felt was restlessness.

— Hi… I’m sorry about tonight. That award should have been yours.

I said softly, before firing the arrow at both our heads.

— It’s okay. That was the first one; there will be other chances.

— Are you home?

My voice came out in a shaky sigh I was ashamed to admit existed.

— I am. I got back about an hour ago. But I still need to shower…

Joe said something else, but the phone muffled the sound, making whatever he said inaudible.

— Are you… are you alone?

I found the courage to ask while waiting for the answer, staring at the ceiling.

— I am, — he replied after a pause too short to be casual. — Just me.

I closed my eyes for a second, feeling the weight of that answer settle in my chest like something alive. The silence on the other end wasn't uncomfortable; it was loaded. Heavy.

— I need to tell you something… and I need to say it now because I can’t sleep. I’m sorry about this.

My voice came out as a whisper, hearing his low laugh reach my ear. The thought that this might be the last time I heard it for this reason terrified me.

— It’s okay. I love hearing what’s on your mind, Y/N.

— You know when you start to change and you don't realize when the change began?

I asked in a whisper.

— Yeah…

— It’s terrifying because suddenly you realize things were affected by your change, and there’s nothing you can do about it because the other person hasn't changed.

— That would be a great reflection for a song, sweetheart, — he murmured, and I heard the rustle of the duvet beneath him. He was probably lying down staring at the ceiling while I babbled.

— Yeah… — I gave a soft laugh, feeling my eyes start to get misty. — I’ve heard a few times that sometimes it’s necessary to tell the other person about this change that happened in you, because at least you’re trying.

We fell silent, and I continued.

— I… — I choked on my own words and took a deep breath before speaking again. — I think I’ve been choking on this, stuck in my head for years. And tonight, when I saw you there, close enough to someone else for me to realize it’s slowly killing me… I had to call you so you’d know that I love you. I love the way you see life and how you take care of the people around you. And I wish all of this was mine, and that I could be the one to listen to you talk about Amsterdam.

Joe said my name, but I closed my eyes, shaking my head and swallowing hard.

— I’m not asking you to say it back, Joe… I just needed to tell you.

We both stayed silent, and then I felt the sob rise in my throat.

— Okay?

My voice trembled, and a tear pooled in the corner of my eye.

— Okay.

He replied.

My lip quivered as I repeated it.

— Okay.

Completely broken, I watched him end the call.

The phone went dead in my hand for a few long seconds. I didn't look at the screen immediately. I just let my arm fall to my side, as if the weight of it all had drained any remaining strength. I took a deep breath, once, twice. It didn't help. The tears came—silent, thick, hot—staining the pillow as I finally allowed myself to feel the impact of what I’d done. It wasn't regret. It was exposure. Raw. Total. I had cut my chest open and shown something I’d been guarding with almost cowardly care for years.

Twenty minutes later, when I was lying down again without actually being asleep, my phone vibrated on the nightstand. An automatic alert, too dry for that time of night.

Movement detected at front door.

I frowned, my heart racing in an immediate reflex. I sat up in bed, pulling the sheet close to my body, and opened the camera feed. The image took half a second to load—long enough for my anxiety to spike—until he appeared.

Joe.

He was pacing back and forth, running his hand through his hair, stopping, taking deep breaths, pacing again. As if his own body didn't know where to settle. As if he were fighting with himself right there, on my porch, at almost five in the morning.

— You have got to be kidding me…

I murmured to no one.

I jumped up, walked to the door, and opened it just a crack—enough to show myself but keep some protection.

— Joe… — I called out, my voice low, incredulous. — What the fuck are you doing?

He stopped instantly. He looked at me as if everything had finally found its right place in the universe.

— I didn't want to hang up that damn phone, — he said all at once, without preamble. — I didn't want to ring the bell because I thought you might be asleep. And I definitely didn't want to say "okay" as if I didn't care, because, fuck… I care a lot.

I stood there, my hand still gripping the door, feeling every word hit my chest like something too hot to handle.

— So you came, — I said, more of a statement than a question.

— I came, — he replied, taking a step forward but stopping before invading my space. — Because I could never be at peace if I left you alone with that fucking "ok". That would be cowardice. And I might be a lot of things, but I’m not that.

I swallowed hard, feeling my eyes sting again.

— You didn't have to…

I started, and Joe looked at me with those big brown eyes—too open, too honest. The same ones I had fallen for bit by bit, without realizing when it had happened.

— I love you, — he said, simple, direct, like someone finally letting out a breath after being underwater for too long. — I never pushed for anything because I thought you only saw me as your friend. That "guy friend" who treats you normally, who respects you. I didn't want to ruin that. So I ignored all the signs. Mine… and yours.

My chest tightened in an almost physical way.

— You think I didn't feel it? — he asked, his voice low. — I felt everything. I just didn't know what to do with it without losing you.

I gave a sad half-smile, nodding slowly.

— Neither did I.

He rested his forehead against mine, closing his eyes for a second. I felt one of his hands move to the back of my neck, his fingers getting lost in the strands of my hair that were no longer as impeccable as they had been on the red carpet.

— When the phone went dark... I felt like I’d lost the chance of a lifetime. I just had to get here and look into your eyes to tell you that the "ideal girlfriend" you described in the interview... isn't a theory. She has your face. She has your late-night laugh and your stupid questions about penguins.

I laughed, a sound that came out like a half-sob, and I felt the weight of the last two weeks finally evaporate.

— Can I kiss you?

I asked, looking up timidly.

— You’re still asking? — he whispered, his voice fading into a tone of sweet disbelief. — Y/N, I’m standing in your living room at five in the morning, in yesterday’s clothes, with my heart in my hand. I didn't cross the city just to be your friend.

He didn't wait for me to take the next step. Joe tilted his head, closing the final distance, and kissed me.

It wasn't like the movies. It was better. It tasted of the salt from my tears that were still stubbornly falling, smelled of gala perfume mixed with the night's exhaustion, and carried that overwhelming feeling of "finally." The kiss started slow, almost as if he were asking permission to change our story forever, but it quickly became urgent. His hands moved from my face to my waist, pulling me closer, as if he wanted to merge our bodies and make sure I wouldn't run away.

My hands tangled in his shirt collar, feeling the warm fabric and the frantic beat of his heart under my palms.

— You have no idea how scared I was that you’d give this kiss to someone else tonight.

I said.

— I never could. I’ve been looking for you with my eyes all night; I couldn't have noticed anyone else, beautiful.

There was only that comfortable silence I had described in the interview—the kind of silence where we understand each other without needing a single cue card.

When we pulled apart just enough to breathe, he touched the tip of his nose to mine, eyes still closed.

— Okay?

He asked, repeating my last word from the call, but now with the tone of a promise.

— Okay.

I replied, smiling against his lips.

I loved that 😩