#hexyissy

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You swipe the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, exhaling as you set the last box down with a soft thud.

Finally.

New York.

The word alone feels too big for the small apartment you’re standing in—half-unpacked boxes, bare walls, the faint hum of the city leaking in through the windows. New job, new environment, new people. It should be terrifying.

It is, a little but there’s something else too—something lighter, brighter. Excitement, maybe. The kind that sits in your chest and refuses to settle, stretching your smile wider no matter how tired you are.

The landlord had called you lucky. “Last unit in the building,” he said, handing over the keys. “Sixth floor. Elevator works…most days.”

You didn’t mind.

Then came the warning, “Only two neighbors up there. One’s a musician. The other—old guy. Walks with a cane.”

You had just nodded. “That’s fine.” and you meant it.

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After months of touring in South America, Joe Keery is more than ready to be home.

New York greets him the same way it always does—loud, restless, alive in a way that never quite lets him breathe properly until he’s behind his own door.

He drags his suitcase down the hallway, keys already in hand, when something feels… off. Well not wrong, just different.

A lights coming from the little space on 6B. 

Right.

The landlord did mention something. A new neighbor.

Joe glances at the door beside his for a second longer than necessary before unlocking his own, curiosity flickering briefly before exhaustion wins.

He’ll deal with it later.

Night settles in slowly, like the city never fully commits to sleeping.

Joe lies sprawled across his couch, a book resting open on his chest, one arm thrown over his eyes. The quiet is almost unfamiliar after weeks of noise—crowds, music, constant movement.

Then, a music. .

Soft at first. Barely there. A voice drifts through the wall, warm and honeyed, wrapped in the faint crackle of what sounds like vinyl.

Let’s fall in love…Why shouldn’t we fall in love…

Joe lowers his arm, listening.

Jazz.

Old jazz.

He lets out a quiet huff of amusement, staring up at the ceiling. Well, That answers that. New neighbor’s probably, what—seventy?

He doesn’t mind, though.

If anything, it’s… nice. Different from the usual bass-heavy, wall-shaking nonsense he’s used to. The song continues, filling the space in a way that feels oddly comforting. Joe closes his eyes again, letting it play.

Morning comes earlier than you’d like but you’re already up.

There’s something about a new place that makes you want to start right—make it yours, make it warm.

And what better way than baking?

Flour dusts the counter, the faint smell of vanilla and butter already curling through the apartment as you move around your tiny kitchen. It’s familiar. Grounding.

By the time the cupcakes come out of the oven, golden and soft, the space feels a little less empty. A little more like home.

You carefully arrange them into containers, wiping your hands on a dish towel before heading out into the hallway.

First stop: 6D, the old man with the cane.

You knock twice. There’s a pause, then the slow shuffle of footsteps before the door creaks open.

A frail man peers at you, brows lifting slightly in surprise. “Oh, hello.”

You brighten instantly. “Hi! I’m Y/N—I just moved in yesterday. I made some cupcakes and thought I’d introduce myself.” You hold the container out.

His expression softens, something fond slipping into his eyes. “Well, aren’t you a sweet thing,” he says. “But I’m afraid I can’t…doctor’s orders. No sugar.”

You perk up immediately. “Oh! That’s okay—I made a few sugar-free ones too, just in case.”

Then he chuckles, shaking his head. “Prepared, aren’t you?”

You grin. “Well… I try.”

He accepts the container this time. “Thank you, dear.”

“Of course.”

The door closes gently, and you step back into the hallway, already turning toward your other neighbor’s door.

You knock.

Once.

Twice.

Nothing.

You wait a moment, tilting your head slightly. Still nothing.

“Hm,” you murmur. They’re probably asleep. 

You glance down at the container in your hands, frowning slightly at the thought of just leaving it on the floor.

No, that won’t do.

You slip back inside your apartment, returning a second later with a small chair, placing it carefully beside their door. The container goes on top, safe and steady.

Then, after a second of hesitation, you grab a pen and a scrap of paper. Your handwriting is quick, a little messy:

To: 6A Just moved in yesterday, please accept this as a small hello :) – 6B

You tuck the note neatly under the container.

There.

Satisfied, you give the setup one last glance before heading down the hall, the faint smell of sugar trailing behind you.

It’s 8:30 am when joe came back after his morning run, when he notice at his door. A cupcake on a chair the definitely not his. 

He steps closer, cautious for no real reason, eyes landing on the container sitting neatly on top.

Oh, right, the new neighbor.

Joe huffs out a quiet breath, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leans in, spotting the note tucked underneath.

He pulls it free, reading it once and again.

6B.

So that’s you.

“‘Small hello,’” he murmurs to himself.

He glances briefly at the door beside his, sillent. Then back at the container. Carefully—like it might somehow be a trap, he lifts the lid.

The smell hits him first.

Sweet. Warm. Vanilla, maybe a hint of butter. It’s… ridiculously comforting. The kind of smell that doesn’t belong in a hallway like this, it belongs to a home. 

Inside sits a cupcake, frosting piped on top in a slightly uneven swirl.

Homemade.

Joe stares at it for a second longer than necessary, something soft flickering across his expression. “Huh.”

He picks it up, turning it slightly in his fingers like he’s inspecting it. This, paired with the music from last night? Yeah, That tracks.

He glances back at your door again, brows lifting a little as the idea settles more firmly in his head.

Definitely an old lady. A nice one, though.

The baking kind. The jazz kind.

The “leaves pastries outside your door” kind.

Joe lets out a quiet laugh under his breath, shaking his head as he finally unlocks his door. “Guess I’ve got a grandma neighbor,” he mutters.

Inside, he drops his keys by the table and sets the container on the kitchen counter. For a moment, he just stands there, staring at it again like he’s debating something.

“Alright,” he says to no one. He peels back the wrapper and takes a bite.

His brows lift immediately. “…okay.”

Another bite, bigger this time. “Okay, damn.”

He lets out a small, surprised laugh, glancing toward the wall that separates your apartments. “You’re showing off now,” he says under his breath, like you can somehow hear him.

He leans back against the counter, finishing the cupcake slower this time, actually tasting it.

It’s good. Really good.

Too good for store-bought. Too good for casual. He wipes a bit of frosting from his thumb, still smiling faintly, something warmer settling in his chest now. The apartment doesn’t feel as empty.

Not with the lingering sweetness in the air. Not with the faint memory of jazz still stuck in his head.

Joe glances at the wall again, thoughtful. “…Yeah,” he murmurs, definitely a grandma.

The thought sticks with him longer than he expects. Long enough that he ends up standing in his kitchen ten minutes later, staring at a blank sticky note.

He taps the pen against it once..

Then writes: Thanks for the cupcake. It was… really good. – 6A

He pauses and frowns, “that’s boring.” He sighs, peeling it off and trying again.

Thanks for the cupcake. I think you just ruined store-bought desserts for me. – 6A

Better.

Still, He glances around his apartment, then toward the small stack of photos sitting near his camera. His fingers hover for a second before picking one up.

A mountain.

Early morning light spilling over the ridges, soft and golden. He flips it over, hesitates—then adds beneath the note: Small hello back to you.

It’s nearly 9 p.m. when you finally make it home. The day had been long, but good. New routines settling in faster than you expected, conversations easier, the unfamiliar already starting to feel… manageable.

You unlock your door, stepping into the hallway—and pause. There’s something on the floor.

A photograph.

You bend slightly, picking it up. A mountain stretches across the frame, bathed in soft light. Calm. Still. Beautiful in a way that makes your chest tighten just a little.

It reminds you of home. Not exactly the same—but close enough. You turn it over.

Thanks for the cupcake. I think you just ruined store-bought desserts for me. Small hello back. – 6A

A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it, so this is your other neighbor. You glance briefly at the door beside yours, like you might somehow see him through it. Then back at the photo. 

“Cute,” you murmur softly.

Inside, you set your things down, carefully pinning the photo onto your corkboard—right where you’ll see it.

You’d already eaten dinner outside, so the night is yours. It settles around you gently, like something waiting to be shaped.

You wash up, letting the warmth of the water ease the day from your shoulders—long hours, unfamiliar faces, the quiet effort of fitting yourself into a place that still feels slightly too big, too new. The kind of tired that isn’t heavy, just… lingering.

When you step back into your room, it feels softer somehow.

More yours.

You change into something comfortable, fabric brushing against your skin like a quiet reward, then reach for the candle on your bedside table. The flame flickers to life, small but steady, casting a golden glow that fills the corners of the apartment turning bare walls into something warmer, something closer to home.

Your record clicks softly into place.

You make me smile with my heart…

The sound spills into the room like honey, slow and warm, wrapping itself around everything, the dim light, the quiet air, the steady rhythm of your breathing. It softens the edges of the day, blurring the sharpness of unfamiliar things.

Your looks are laughable, un-photographable…

You hum along under your breath, a small smile tugging at your lips as you move absentmindedly around the space, adjusting a book here, straightening a corner there.

…yet, you’re my favorite work of art.

The lyrics linger, hanging gently in the air like they belong there. Like they’ve always belonged there and maybe it’s silly but you’re aware of it.

The walls aren’t that thick.

Whoever lives next door can probably hear every note, every crackle of the vinyl, every quiet hum you don’t even realize you’re making.

You pause for a second, glancing toward the wall.

Listening.

Nothing comes back. No complaints. No knocking. No sign that you’re bothering anyone. Just silence. A soft exhale leaves you, something between relief and amusement.

“Well,” you murmur to yourself, voice barely louder than the music, “I’ll take that as approval.”

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It’s been a month.

A whole month of passing the same hallway, the same doors, the same quiet space between you and apartment 6A.

And still, you haven’t met him.

You know he exists. You hear it sometimes—soft guitar drifting through the walls, not loud enough to intrude, just enough to remind you he’s there. A presence without a face.

It’s strange, in a way. To feel like you know someone’s habits, but not their name.

Still, you don’t push. Everyone has their own rhythm. Their own life unfolding behind closed doors. You’ve learned not to interrupt that.

So instead, you bake.

On your days off, the kitchen fills with warmth—cupcakes, cinnamon rolls, brownies. The kind of things that make a place feel lived in. The kind of things that are easier to share than words.

And when you’re not baking, you’re here. Sitting across from the old man in 6D, a chessboard between you, the afternoon light stretching lazily across the table.

He moves slowly, but never uncertain. “Have you met your neighbor yet?” he asks, eyes still fixed on the board.

You shake your head, nudging your pawn forward. “No, not yet.”

A small pause. “I leave baked goods sometimes,” you add, almost sheepish. “And he leaves notes. That’s… kind of our thing, I guess.”

Your pawn lands on C4, a quiet offering.

The old man hums, considering, before sliding his knight into place. “Yeah,” he says. “He’s a good man.”

You glance up briefly. “You know him?”

“A little.” Something is known in the way he says it, but he doesn’t elaborate.

You look back down at the board, tapping your finger lightly against the edge.

“I guess we just never catch each other,” you murmur. “Even in the hallway.”

A beat, “sometimes I hear him play guitar, though.”

The old man smiles faintly at that, shifting another piece with careful precision. “And I hear your music every night,” he says. “That old jazz.”

You smile, a little brighter now. “Yeah, Ella Fitzgerald. She’s my favorite.”

“It reminds me of my wife.”

That makes you pause. Not in surprise but in the way something soft settles into the moment, asking you to slow down.

You look up.

He’s not looking at you anymore. His gaze is somewhere else entirely, distant in a way that feels… familiar. Like he’s seeing something that isn’t here.

“Do you miss her?” you ask gently.

He lets out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh—but softer. “My soul yearns for her,” he says. 

The words don’t feel heavy just hones, like something he’s learned to carry.

You don’t say anything for a moment. Just nod, letting the silence sit between you—not empty, but full in its own quiet way.

Then, he moves his queen. Smooth. Certain.

“Checkmate.”

You blink, looking down at the board—then let out a surprised laugh. “Wait—what? No, that’s…” you lean forward, scanning the pieces, realization dawning too late. “You’ve been setting that up this whole time.”

He smiles, just a little. “Patience,” he says.

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you lean back in your chair. “Remind me never to underestimate you again.”

“Too late for that,” he replies.

Your laughter fades into something softer, your gaze drifting briefly toward the direction of your apartment.

Toward 6A. Toward the quiet, unseen neighbor who exists somewhere just beyond your reach.

“Maybe I’ll meet him eventually,” you murmur.

The old man follows your gaze, something knowing flickering in his expression. “Oh,” he says quietly. “you will.”

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Joe’s phone is propped up against a stack of books, his sisters’ faces filling the screen as they talk over each other, as usual.

“Are you eating properly?” one of them asks.

“Are you sleeping?” the other cuts in.

“Do you even know what sleep is?”

Joe huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Yes, I’m eating. Yes, I’m sleeping. I’m alive, I promise.”

“That’s not convincing,” one of them says.

He rolls his eyes, leaning back against the couch. “Okay, fine. I’ve been surviving off baked goods lately.”

“Oh?”

“My neighbor,” he adds, something softer slipping into his tone without him noticing. “She’s—uh… probably someone’s grandma. Loves to bake. Leaves stuff outside my door.”

His sisters immediately light up.

“Oh my god.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Right?” Joe says, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Her cupcakes are insane. Like, life-changing. I don’t even think I can eat store-bought anymore.”

“Have you met her?”

He pauses “…no.”

“What?” they both say at the same time.

“I mean…we just, you know. Miss each other.” He shrugs. “Schedules.”

They stare at him.

“Joe.”

“What?”

“Go meet your grandma.”

He groans. “I’m not knocking on her door like some weirdo.”

“You literally eat her food.”

“Exactly,” he says. “That makes it worse.”

They laugh, he shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Alright, I gotta go,” he says, reaching for his phone. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Go meet her!” they call before the screen goes dark.

The apartment feels quieter after the call ends. Joe glances toward the door without really meaning to.

Toward 6B.

He thinks about the last note he left. The way you’d written back before that—simple, warm, easy. It’s a little strange. To feel like you know someone through scraps of paper and sugar. And it’s making him miss home, his family. 

It’s been a week of no cupcakes. no brownies. no cinnamon rolls. not even a note. Joe doesn’t mention it because who would he even say it to? but he notices.

Every morning, when he steps into the hallway, there’s a small, stupid part of him that looks down automatically. 

Nothing.

He opens his fridge one afternoon, staring at the plastic container of store-bought cupcakes sitting untouched on the shelf. He bought them two days ago.

They’re… fine. Too sweet. Too perfect. No personality.

Joe shuts the fridge with a quiet sigh. “Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “Not the same.”

He leans against the counter for a second, arms crossed. Maybe you’re busy. Maybe you got tired of baking. Maybe, he shakes his head slightly, cutting the thought off, “It’s not like she has to,” he says under his breath.

Still.

The hallway feels a little emptier.

A few days later, on the first floor, Joe stands waiting for the elevator, headphones hanging loosely around his neck. The doors haven’t opened yet when he hears the slow tap of a cane.

He turns, “Hey,” he says, recognizing the old man from upstairs.

“Well, if it isn’t the musician,” the old man replies, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “How are you, Joe?”

“I’m good,” Joe says. “You?”

“Still alive. That’s something.”

Joe huffs a quiet laugh. A pause settles between them, comfortable.

“Have you met our neighbor yet?” the old man asks casually.

Joe shakes his head. “No. But she keeps me fed.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Joe says, a grin forming. “Cupcakes, pies, muffins… I’ve got a whole bakery situation going on upstairs.”

The old man hums, amused. “A very sweet woman,” Joe adds, clearly entertained by himself.

“Very,” the old man agrees, watching him closely.

Joe glances at him, catching the look. “What?”

“Nothing,” the old man says. “Just wondering why you haven’t asked her to coffee yet.”

Joe lets out a short laugh. “Oh—no. Nope. Not happening.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Joe shrugs. “Feels… weird.”

“Weird?”

“Yeah. Like what am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, thanks for the baked goods, wanna hang out?’” He shakes his head. “Hard pass.”

The old man studies him for a moment, something amused and knowing sitting just beneath the surface. “You might regret that,” he says.

Joe smirks. “What, I’m trying to set you up here?”

The old man raises his cane slightly, pointing it at him. “Careful, boy. My wife might come back and haunt you.”

Joe laughs. “Yeah? I’d like to see her try.”

The elevator dings, doors sliding open. They step inside, still smiling.

 Later that night, Joe sits on his bed, guitar resting against his thigh, fingers idly strumming as he works through a melody that refuses to settle.

The apartment is quiet, then the melodies finally made it, faint at first.

There’s a somebody I’m longin’ to see…

Joe pauses for half a second, fingers hovering over the strings before continuing.

Someone who’ll watch over me…

Ella Fitzgerald again.

He almost smiles. It’s been a week since he’s heard it. A week since—laughter cuts through the song, a bright, unrestrained, and close. 

Joe’s hand stills completely this time. The sound carries through the wall, through the slight crack of his open window. Not soft. Not quiet.

He frowns slightly, tilting his head. “She’s got someone over,” he murmurs. That must be it. That’s why the baking stopped.

Why the hallway’s been empty.

His fingers press absently against the strings, but he doesn’t play. The laughter comes again, lighter this time, fading into the music. Joe leans back slightly, staring at nothing in particular.

“…yeah,” he mutters. Makes sense but something about it sits strange in his chest. Not bad, just different. 

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Three days have passed since you invited the old man from 6D over for dinner.

In exchange, he told you stories, long, winding ones about his late wife. The way she laughed, the way she danced in the kitchen, the way she filled a room without trying.

You’d listened the whole night, chin resting on your hand, smiling softly. It lingered with you. That kind of love that stays, even after.

Now, you’re in the elevator, balancing two grocery bags in each hand, the plastic handles digging slightly into your fingers.

Your headphones sit snug over your ears, music playing low—just enough to keep you company, not enough to drown the world out completely.

It’s been a long day. You just want to get upstairs. The elevator doors begin to close, and then a hand appears trying to get between them. 

You look up. For a split second, you catch a glimpse of someone on the other side. Tall. Slightly out of breath. Familiar in a way that makes your brows knit together.

You’ve seen him before. You’re sure of it but before your brain can place it the doors slide shut.

The elevator continues upward. You blink “…huh.”

You shift the bags in your hands, the plastic rustling softly as your mind tries to catch up. Where have you seen him? Not in the building—no, you would remember that.

Or… would you?

On the other side, Joe exhales, dropping his hand as the elevator doors fully close in front of him. “Seriously?”

He lets out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair. He was right there.

The girl inside, he frowns slightly. He knows that face. Not personally. Not exactly. But there’s something about it. Something that feels… close.

He shakes his head. “Whatever,” he mutters, stepping back as he waits for the next elevator.

By the time you reach the sixth floor, your arms are starting to ache. You step out carefully, adjusting your grip as you make your way down the hallway.

Almost there, almost, then one of the bags slips.

“—shit.”

You barely catch it before it hits the floor, but a few items tumble out anyway—an apple rolling a short distance, a box of something sliding across the tiles.

You sigh, crouching down awkwardly, trying to gather everything without dropping the rest.

The elevator dings behind you. You don’t turn, too focused.

Joe steps out, already reaching for his keys then pauses. There’s someone crouched in the hallway. Groceries scattered slightly around them. He hesitates for half a second.

Then,  “Hey—uh, wait,” he says, stepping forward. “I got it.”

You glance up, startled.

It’s him.

The guy from the elevator. Up close, he looks even more familiar. Before you can think about it, he’s already crouching beside you, picking up the apple and handing it back.

“Thanks,” you say, a little breathless.

“Yeah, no problem.”

There’s a small pause as you both reach for the same item at the same time—your fingers brushing briefly.

You pull back first. “Sorry.”

“No—my bad,” he says quickly.

Another pause, not uncomfortable. Just… unsure.

You stand, adjusting the bags again, and he does the same—except he doesn’t have anything in his hands, so now he’s just standing there. Looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out.

“You live up here?” you ask, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” he nods, then gestures vaguely behind him. “Uh—6A.”

You blink.

Oh.

Oh.

Something clicks; it might be a stupid and rude move, but you immediately go inside your apartment. Trying not to embarrass yourself more in front of Joe Keery. 

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The hallway smells like sugar again.

Joe notices it before anything else—warm, soft, something like vanilla and butter baked into the walls. It’s been like that for weeks now, always in the evenings. Always paired with the low hum of old music bleeding through the floorboards—brassy, smooth, something that sounds like it belongs in a different decade.

He’s halfway to convincing himself to knock when the door across from his opens.

You step out, not even close to eighty. You’re holding a small plate, a cupcake perched neatly in the center, frosting swirled a little uneven like it was done in a rush.

Joe just… stares.

“Oh—uh,” you say, offering a small smile, holding the plate out toward him. “Hi. I am the one who just moved in and I want to apologize for my rude behavior aside from, you know… assaulting the hallway with baked goods.”

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“Right. Yeah. No—yeah, that’s… that’s okay.” He takes the plate automatically, still looking at you like his brain is buffering. “Thanks.”

Then, because his mouth always moves faster than his thoughts.  “Tell your grandma thanks too,” he adds, nodding toward the door behind you. “She’s been, uh… really generous with the pastries.”

Silence.

You blink at him. “My… what?”

“Your grandma,” Joe repeats, suddenly less confident. He gestures vaguely. “The music, the baking..I just figured—”

There’s a pause. Not awkward yet. Just confused. Then your brows knit together, and you let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh.

“I don’t—” you shake your head a little, like you’re trying to catch up to him. “My grandma’s dead.”

Joe freezes, completely, “Oh.”

The word drops like a brick between you.

“I mean....not like recently,” you add quickly, not unkindly, but definitely trying not to laugh now. “I just…there’s no grandma in there. It’s just me.”

Joe looks at the cupcake in his hand. Then back at you. Then at your door. Like, maybe an elderly woman will magically appear and save him.

She does not.

“…I thought you were, like, seventy,” he admits.

That does it. You laugh, eally laugh this time, shoulders shaking, hand coming up to your mouth.

“Seventy?”

“The music!” he defends, pointing at the wall. “And the baking! And, there’s vinyl, right? I heard—”

“I like Ella Fitzgerald, oh my god, is that illegal now?” you shoot back, still smiling.

“No! No, it’s just most people our age are playing, I don’t know, depressing indie music and eating instant noodles.”

“I do that too,” you say. “Just… with better snacks.”

That earns a small, helpless laugh from him. “Okay. Yeah. That tracks.”

A softer pause settles this time, less awkward more curious.

“I’m…Joe, by the way.”

“I know,” you say, a little too quickly then wince. “not in a weird way. You’re just… you know.”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

You gesture vaguely. “Well-known”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Right.”

You nod toward the cupcake. “You should try it before you decide I’m secretly an old lady.”

Joe peels back the wrapper, still smiling a little to himself. “Tastes like something a seventy-year-old would make,” he says, taking a bite.

You gasp. “Rude.”

He grins. “Really good, though.”

He shifts his weight slightly, glancing at you, then away, then back again.like he’s deciding something.

“Hey uh…” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “This might be… kind of random, but”

You tilt your head, waiting.

“I feel like I owe you,” he says, holding up the cupcake a little. “For all the baked goods. And the, uh… emotional damage from thinking you were someone’s grandma.”

You laugh softly.

“So…” he continues, a little more sure now, “would you maybe want to grab coffee sometime?”

You study him for a second just enough to make him a little nervous.

“Only if you’re willing to teach me how to play guitar.”

Joe blinks then smiles,  “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can do that.”

You nod once, satisfied. “Then we’ve got a deal.”

Another beat lingers between you quiet, warm, something new settling in the space where there used to be just a wall.

The hallway still smells like sugar but now it feels like something else, too. Something just beginning.

the girl next door (is not a grandma) masterlist

Joe’s schedule finally clears two weeks later. Well, technically he made sure it cleared. because every time something tried to land on tonight’s schedule, Joe immediately moved it somewhere else without hesitation.

And no, he refuses to examine why.

It’s just a guitar lesson, that’s all. A completely normal guitar lesson between two completely normal neighbors who definitely do not spend an absurd amount of time thinking about each other. Totally fine. 

Which is exactly why Joe is currently deep-cleaning his apartment like his life depends on it. Empty beer bottles? Gone. Song lyrics and scribbled notes scattered across the coffee table? Stuffed into drawers. Blankets folded. Kitchen cleaned. He even restocks the fridge after realizing the only thing inside was sparkling water, leftover takeout sauce, and half a lemon that looked emotionally exhausted. He frowned at the sight of that. 

Joe steps back in the middle of his living room, scanning everything carefully. The apartment suddenly looks… suspiciously presentable, too presentable. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters to himself. “Pull it together, Joseph.”

He runs both hands through his hair before groaning quietly. “It’s just a guitar lesson.”

Which is ridiculous, honestly. He’s played in front of thousands of people before. None of that makes him nervous.

So why does the thought of you sitting in his apartment make his heartbeat weird? Before he can spiral further a soft knock echoes through the room. Joe freezes immediately.

Then quickly tries to pretend he didn’t freeze. He clears his throat once, forcing himself to walk normally toward the door instead of sprinting like an excited golden retriever.

The second he opens it there you are.

Standing in the hallway with a soft smile and a container balanced carefully in your hands. and somehow despite seeing you almost every day Joe still has that stupid moment where his brain forgets how to function properly.

“Hey,” you say warmly.

Joe smiles immediately, like an instinct “Hey.”

You lift the container slightly. “I brought cinnamon rolls.”

Joe stares at you for a second before laughing softly under his breath. “At this point,” he says, leaning against the doorway slightly, “if I call you sweet, it’s not even a compliment anymore.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“It’s just factual information now.” That pulls a laugh from you immediately.

He steps aside quickly, gesturing you in. “Come in.”

The second you walk inside, warmth wraps around you instantly. Not just from the temperature from the apartment itself.

Joe’s place feels different from yours. Your apartment feels like fresh pastries cooling near a window. His feels like late-night music and unfinished thoughts.

Warm lamps cast golden light across the room instead of harsh brightness. Guitars rest carelessly against walls and couches like extensions of himself. Vinyls and VHS tapes fill handcrafted wooden shelves alongside stacks of books and old polaroids tucked into corners.

The apartment is neat but lived in, comfortable. Like creativity has been quietly breathing inside these walls for years. You notice framed pictures of his sisters and nieces scattered around the shelves. Tiny reminders of home tucked everywhere.  somehow that softens something in your chest immediately.

Your eyes drift toward one of the guitars near the couch. Then toward the notebook half-hidden beneath the coffee table then back to Joe.

“I like your apartment,” you say honestly.

Joe watches you carefully while you look around, like your opinion matters more than it probably should.

“Yeah?” he asks softly.

You nod. “It feels very…” You pause, searching for the word. “You.”

Joe laughs quietly. “That could either be a compliment or an insult.”

“It’s a compliment.” Something warm flickers across his face at that.

“Good,” he says, after a beat, “Make yourself at home.”

You place the cinnamon rolls carefully on the counter while Joe hovers nearby.

“You know,” he says casually, “normal students usually bring notebooks.”

You glance at him innocently. “I brought carbs instead.”

“Best student I’ve ever had.”

“I haven’t even touched the guitar yet.”

“You brought homemade cinnamon rolls,” Joe says seriously. “You already passed.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. poor Joe has to look away for a second because somehow seeing you inside his apartment, smiling softly beneath the warm lighting. 

An hour later you are officially losing the war against the guitar.

“Oh my god,” you groan dramatically, fingers fumbling against the strings again. “This is ridiculous. I suck at this.”

Across from you, Joe laughs quietly from where he’s sitting on the edge of the couch.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

You stare at him flatly. “Joe, we’ve been stuck switching from F to G for, like, thirty minutes.”

“Okay,” he admits through a grin. “maybe forty.”

You drop your head against the guitar dramatically. “I’m quitting.”

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“You brought cinnamon rolls,” Joe says seriously. “You’re committed now.”

That pulls a reluctant laugh out of you. Joe smiles immediately at the sound, softer this time. Honestly, he doesn’t even care that the lesson’s going nowhere. Having you here already feels distracting enough.

You adjust the guitar again with a sigh. “My fingers hurt.”

“That means you’re learning.”

“That means I deserve financial compensation.”

Joe laughs. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you invited me over willingly.”

“Yeah,” he says absentmindedly.

You try the chord progression again.

F.

Then, your fingers completely tangle trying to switch to G. The guitar lets out a deeply unpleasant sound. You stare at it in betrayal.

Joe bursts into laughter. “Oh, that was offensive.”

“See?” you point accusingly. “Even the guitar hates me.”

“No, here—” Joe stands, moving toward you. “Let me show you again.”

You barely register how close he gets at first. Only that suddenly he’s behind you, leaning slightly over your shoulder as he reaches for the guitar gently.

“Okay,” he murmurs softly. “Relax your hand a little.”

His arm slides beside yours carefully, fingers brushing yours as he adjusts your grip against the strings. “Like this.”

And suddenly Joe is everywhere. Warmth at your back. His voice close to your ear. His hands over yours. The faint scent of his cologne wrapping around you softly.

Something earthy underneath. Like rain against pavement and freshly washed clothes from the laundry. 

You realize, distantly, that he always smells like this. And somehow that thought alone makes your heartbeat stumble.

Joe keeps talking quietly, focused on the guitar. “You’re pressing too hard here,” he says gently. “See?”

But you’re not really listening anymore. Because now you’re noticing things you shouldn’t. The warmth of his chest against your shoulder. The way his voice drops lower when he’s concentrating. The faint rasp in his laugh when you mess up.

 God he’s so close.

Maybe Joe notices your attention drifting. Maybe he feels the sudden shift in the air too. Because slowly his voice fades. And when you look up, he’s already looking at you.

The room goes quiet. Not awkward, just full. Like something is hanging there between you now, invisible but undeniable.

Joe’s eyes flick briefly toward your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Your breath catches softly. And for one impossible second it really feels like maybe..

The entire apartment suddenly goes dark.

You gasp softly at the sudden blackout. The guitar nearly slips from your lap.

“Shit,” Joe says immediately, standing quickly. “Hold on.” The room feels pitch black instantly. Too fast. Too sudden, before you can stop it panic curls sharply in your chest.

“Hey,” Joe says somewhere in the dark. “I’m grabbing my phone, okay? Stay there.”

The sound of movement echoes softly through the apartment.A drawer opening..

Then finally, a flashlight flickers on dimly from across the room.

Joe turns toward you immediately and freezes.

You’re sitting completely still on the couch, shoulders tense, hands gripping the edge of the guitar too tightly. Your breathing is uneven, eyes are glassy.

Joe’s expression softens instantly. “Oh,” he says quietly.

He crosses the room immediately. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay.”

You shake your head slightly, embarrassed already. “I know, it’s stupid—”

“No,” Joe says gently. “It’s not.”

He remembers now. The story you told him one late night over coffee. During the camp trip, you were alone in the cabin when the power went out. The older kids were trying to scare you while you sat alone, crying in the dark. At the time, you laughed it off afterward. Said you grew out of it mostly. But apparently, not completely.

Joe crouches carefully in front of you. The flashlight resting dimly beside him now. “You okay?” he asks softly.

You try to answer. Instead, your voice comes out smaller than intended. “…don’t go.”

Something in Joe’s chest aches immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And he means it.

Entirely.

Joe sits beside you again, much closer this time. Close enough that your shoulders touch. Then gently and carefully he pulls you toward him.

You go without hesitation. Your arms wrap around him tightly almost immediately, face tucked against his chest while Joe holds you there securely. One hand rubbing slow comforting circles against your back.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs softly.

You nod against him, Joe stays patient. The kind of calm that doesn’t demand anything from you.

Outside, somewhere in the city, car horns echo faintly. But inside apartment, everything narrows down to this. The dark room. The soft glow of Joe’s phone flashlight.  the way he holds you like letting go never even crosses his mind.

After a while, your breathing finally steadies. You pull back slightly, embarrassed.

 “sorry.”

Joe frowns immediately. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because I kind of ruined the lesson.”

Joe stares at you for a second. Then laughs softly in disbelief. “You think I care about the lesson right now?”

You shrug weakly.

Joe shakes his head, smiling gently. “You’re cute when you’re worried, you know that?”

Your eyes widen slightly.

Joe realizes what he just said and suddenly both of you go very, very quiet again.

After a while, your breathing finally steadies. The panic loosens its grip little by little until all that remains is the embarrassing awareness that you’re still tucked against Joe Keery’s chest. he still hasn’t let go, not that you want him to.

The apartment remains dark around you, lit only by the dim flashlight resting beside the couch. Outside, the city hums faintly through the windows.

Distant sirens. Car horns. Soft rain tapping softly somewhere against metal fire escapes. New York never really goes quiet.

But here inside apartment 6A everything feels strangely still.

Safe

Joe glances toward the hallway. “We should probably check what’s going on,” he says gently.

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moves immediately for one awkwardly soft second, you both become very aware of how close you still are.

Joe clears his throat first. “Right. Okay.”

You laugh quietly under your breath, cheeks warm. “Okay.”

The second you stand, Joe reaches for your hand instinctively. Not dramatic. Not even fully intentional. Just automatic. Like somewhere in his brain he already decided: stay close.

And honestly? You don’t question it.

The flashlight from his phone bounces softly against the apartment walls while Joe carefully guides you toward the door.

“Watch your step,” he murmurs.

“I know how to walk, Joe.”

“Debatable after that guitar performance earlier.”

You gasp softly. “That was mean.”

Joe grins immediately in the darkness. “You’ll recover.”

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The hallway outside glows dimly with emergency lights.

A few apartment doors remain cracked open while neighbors murmur to each other sleepily. Somewhere farther down the hall, someone complains loudly about the freezer defrosting. The whole building feels oddly alive now like the blackout pulled everyone briefly from their separate little worlds.

You’re halfway down the hallway before realizing something. Your hand still wrapped around Joe’s.

His thumb absentmindedly brushing once against your knuckles as he walks. Your stomach flips instantly.

Oh.

Slowly, you start pulling your hand away, embarrassed now that the panic has faded. But before you fully can Joe’s fingers tighten gently around yours. Not enough to trap. Just enough to say: it’s okay.

Your eyes flick toward him immediately. Joe glances back casually, like holding your hand is the most natural thing in the world.

“You good?” he asks softly. that tiny question makes your chest feel warm all over again.

“Yeah,” you answer quietly.

Joe smiles a little. “Cool.”

Neither of you mentions the handholding after that. Neither of you lets go either.

The two of you take the stairs down carefully with the rest of the tenants. The farther downstairs you get, the warmer and louder the building becomes.

People crowd the lobby in pajamas and slippers, illuminated by phone flashlights and battery-powered lanterns. Someone’s kid is crying near the mailboxes while another tenant dramatically predicts the building’s collapse over a broken fuse.

Joe leans closer slightly.

“New York really brings people together through shared suffering.”

You snort softly. A laugh immediately tugs at Joe’s mouth.

Near the entrance, the landlord wipes sweat from his forehead while explaining the situation for what’s probably the tenth time.

“Something sparked in the basement,” he says tiredly. “Electrician’s coming now. Probably another hour.”

A collective groan echoes through the lobby. 

Joe glances around once before looking back at you. “You wanna head back upstairs?” he asks quietly. “It’s getting crowded down here.”

You nod immediately. “Please.”

The walk back upstairs feels slower somehow. Softer. The building quieter now that everyone’s settled into waiting. still, your hand remains tucked in Joe’s the entire way.

When you finally reach the sixth floor again, you stop outside apartment 6D and knock gently. A few seconds later, the old man opens the door slightly, already holding a flashlight in one hand.

“Well,” he says, looking between you and Joe knowingly, “aren’t you two cozy.”

Your face warms instantly. Joe coughs awkwardly beside you.

“We just came to tell you what the landlord said,” you explain quickly. “Power should be back in an hour.”

The old man nods slowly. “Mhm.”

His eyes drop very obviously toward your joined hands. Neither you nor Joe notices immediately.

“Oh—and your cat’s fine,” he adds casually. “Little guy’s asleep on my recliner like he pays rent.”

That pulls a relieved smile from you immediately. “Thank God.”

“He snored once,” the old man says gravely. “Scared me half to death.”

Joe laughs beside you, warm and quiet for some reason he doesn’t let go of your hand even once.

A few minutes later, the rain has stopped, and you find yourself outside on the fire escape with Joe beside you.

The metal steps feel cool beneath your shoes.

Somewhere below, New York continues breathing loudly into the night—cars rushing past glowing intersections, distant laughter echoing from sidewalks, music spilling faintly from open windows several buildings away.

The city never really sleeps.

It just softens around the edges after midnight. The cool air feels nice after the crowded lobby downstairs. Quieter up here too.

Just you.

Joe.

And the skyline stretches endlessly before you.

Your head rests lightly against his shoulder before you even realize you’re doing it. Joe goes still for half a second. Then carefully relaxes beside you, shoulder nudging slightly closer like he’s trying not to make a big deal out of how much he likes having you there.

Below you, yellow taxi lights blur across rain-dark streets like melted stars. Everything glows. Even the silence between you feels warm.

Joe glances sideways. “You feeling better?”

You nod softly against his shoulder. “Yeah.” Then after a beat, “Sorry again.”

Joe groans immediately. “Oh my god, stop apologizing.”

You laugh quietly.

“I can’t help it.”

“Well, help it.”

“That’s not very supportive.”

Joe grins. “I held you through a blackout. I think I’ve earned the right to bully you a little.” You shake your head fondly.

The city wind moves gently around you, carrying the faint scent of rain and street food from somewhere below. For a while, neither of you says anything. it doesn’t feel awkward at all. It feels easy. sitting beside Joe has quietly become one of your favorite things without you noticing.

Then softly, almost out of nowhere, you speak.

“Joe?”

“Hm?”

You lift your head slightly to look at him. “Thank you.”

Joe’s brows pull together gently. “For what?”

You look back out at the city lights for a second before answering. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “For… everything, I guess.”

Joe stays silent, listening. So you continue. “When I moved here, I was excited, obviously. But I was scared too.”

Your fingers play absentmindedly with the sleeve of his hoodie he gave you.

“This city’s so loud all the time. Fast. Everybody’s always moving somewhere.” You laugh softly under your breath. “And meanwhile I’m over here baking cinnamon rolls and listening to Ella Fitzgerald like somebody’s grandmother.”

Joe smiles immediately at that.

“But seriously,” you continue more quietly, “I kept thinking maybe New York just wasn’t built for people like me.”

Joe’s expression softens. “What do you mean?”

You shrug one shoulder lightly. “I like slow mornings. Quiet nights. Small cafés.” Your voice grows softer. “I thought maybe eventually the city would swallow all that whole.”

The wind passes gently between you. Then you look at him fully. “But it didn’t.” Joe holds your gaze immediately. Because suddenly this doesn’t feel like casual conversation anymore.

“Because of you,” you say quietly.

And God, Joe’s heart almost stops.

You smile a little, softer now. “You made this place feel less scary.”

Joe doesn’t move. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t look away.

So you continue carefully, honestly. “You made me feel like maybe there is space for someone like me here.” Your eyes drift around the city again. “Like maybe I belonged all along.” Your voice turns gentler then. “And I’m really happy you’re my neighbor.”

For a moment, Joe just stares at you. Like he’s trying to process the fact that someone could say something that tender so casually. So sincerely. The city lights reflect softly in your eyes. And all Joe can think is, oh, I’m in so much trouble.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose before speaking. “Well,” he says softly, “first of all… you keep me fed.”

You laugh immediately, the sound bright against the quiet night. “There he is.”

“I’m serious,” Joe says, grinning. “You weaponized pastries against me.”

“That was strategic, actually.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

The teasing fades slowly after that. Joe’s fingers tap absentmindedly against his knee before he speaks again. 

“But honestly…” His voice lowers slightly. “You do the same thing for me.” Your smile softens. Joe looks down at his hands briefly before continuing.

“There’s always so much noise around me all the time.” He laughs quietly. “Not literally. Just… life, I guess.”

Tours.

Schedules.

Interviews.

People always needing something from him.

Joe rarely says things like this out loud. But somehow with you it feels easy. When he sits causally on your counter letting him vent out while eating anything you baked at that day. 

Then he looks at you again. “And whenever I’m with you…” he says softly, “everything slows down a little.”

Your chest tightens immediately.

Joe smiles faintly to himself. “You make me feel like I can actually breathe for a second.” The city wind catches softly in his hair. “And I think…” He pauses, suddenly looking oddly shy. “I think I forgot I was allowed to rest before I met you.”

Your expression softens completely. Joe lets out a quiet laugh, almost embarrassed now. “So yeah,” he says gently. “I should probably be thanking you too.”

The silence afterward feels different.

Heavier somehow, not uncomfortable, just full. The air between you has shifted into something neither of you fully knows how to name yet.

You’re still looking at each other when the lights inside the apartment building suddenly flicker back on behind you.

Both of you blink at the brightness. Then, almost simultaneously, you laugh.

The tension breaks softly around the edges but not completely because even while laughing, Joe notices your hand still resting near his. when his fingers brush yours again neither of you pulls away.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

The guitar lesson never resumes.

Somewhere between the blackout, the fire escape, and the conversation that still lingers warmly between you both, neither of you really has the energy to go back to chords and strumming patterns.

Not when something softer has settled between you instead.

“So technically,” Joe Keery says while setting the guitar carefully against the wall, “you still owe me one proper lesson.”

You grin lazily from his couch. “I think the blackout spiritually ended the class.”

Joe snorts “Fair enough.”

Eventually, Joe offers to put on a movie. You immediately say yes. Mostly because neither of you seems ready for the night to end yet.

“Okay,” Joe says dramatically while scrolling through tapes and DVDs near the television. “Important question.”

You tuck your legs beneath yourself on the couch. “Hm?”

“Original trilogy or prequels?”

You gasp. “Oh, original trilogy. Obviously.”

Joe presses a hand against his chest. “Thank God.”

So now you’re curled together on his couch rewatching The Empire Strikes Back while the city glows softly beyond the apartment windows.

The city outside feels quieter now.

Sleepier.

Inside apartment 6A, the only light comes from the television flickering gold and blue across the walls. Somewhere in the kitchen, the leftover scent of cinnamon rolls still lingers faintly in the air.

Halfway through the movie, Joe starts rambling again. Something about practical effects. Or how Harrison Ford improvised half his lines. Or maybe how the asteroid scene changed sci-fi movies forever.

Honestly, you stopped fully listening five minutes ago, not because he’s boring. Quite the opposite.

Joe talks with his hands when he gets excited, eyes bright, voice warm and animated in a way that makes you want to keep listening forever.

It’s comforting like listening to your favorite song play softly from another room.

“And that’s why this is objectively the best Star Wars movie ever made—” Joe pauses suddenly because you haven’t responded. He glances toward you and immediately softens.

You’re asleep.

Somewhere during his rambling, your head had slowly slipped against his shoulder, breathing evening out softly beside him.

Your face looks peaceful like this.

The city lights outside paint faint gold across your features while the movie continues playing forgotten in the background.

Joe stares for a second too long. Then another and another. Something warm blooms painfully inside his chest. Joe smiles quietly to himself.

Because somewhere between hallway cupcakes, Ella Fitzgerald drifting through apartment walls, coffee tastings, fire escapes, and your sleepy head resting against his shoulder—he fell in love with you.

Deeply.

Completely.

Hopelessly.

And honestly? He thinks maybe he’s been falling for much longer than he realized.

The thought should scare him. Instead, it feels strangely calm. finally understanding the meaning of a song you’ve heard a hundred times before.

Onscreen, lightsabers clash dramatically while Joe carefully reaches up to brush a strand of hair away from your face. You shift slightly in your sleep, mumbling something incoherent against his shoulder.

Joe lets out the softest laugh. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Exactly.”

Carefully, so carefully—Joe slides one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. He lifts you slowly from the couch. You stir immediately, brows furrowing for half a second before instinctively curling closer against him instead.

Joe’s heart nearly explodes on the spot. “Oh, you’re killing me,” he murmurs quietly, mostly to himself.

The apartment feels softer somehow carrying you through it. The warm glow from the kitchen. The low hum of the refrigerator. The movie still playing faintly in the background.

Everything feels suspended; the night itself doesn’t want to end yet.

Joe carries you carefully into his bedroom and lowers you gently onto the mattress. You barely wake, only sighing softly as he pulls the blanket over you.

For a second, he just stands there looking at you. You fit here so naturally it almost terrifies him. Like you’ve always belonged in his space. Like his apartment somehow waited for you too.

Joe exhales softly through his nose, smiling helplessly.

Then, before he can overthink it—he leans down and presses the gentlest kiss against your forehead.

Tender enough to say everything he still isn’t ready to admit out loud. You shift slightly beneath the blanket but don’t wake.

Joe smiles instantly.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispers.

Then he quietly leaves the room, leaving the bedside lamp on dimly before heading back toward the couch. But even lying there hours later, staring at the ceiling while the credits roll silently across the television, Joe still can’t stop smiling.

issy talks: im gigling and maybe crying because of joy writing this. originally, this supposed to be a one-part only and not a series but here we are AND I LOVE IT so thank youuu!! suggestions and requests are open. love you all. mwa mwa

Joe’s sisters already loved you before they even met you. They already have a hint about what Joe's relationship is because Joe in love sounds exactly like Joe rambling.

So, the second he finally admitted the two of you were officially dating? His sisters lost their minds. One screamed. One started to pray.  One demanded pictures. One immediately shouted, “FINALLY FINALLY!!”

After weeks of begging, they’re finally coming to your café. Unfortunately, you’re trying very hard not to spiral about it. Which mostly means reorganizing pastry displays that are already organized while your staff watches in amusement.

“What if they don’t like me?” you whisper dramatically while fixing the cupcake labels for the fourth time.

One of your coworkers blinks at you “Joe looks at you like you invented love.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“They’re literally related to him,” your coworker says. “They’re probably already obsessed with you.”

You groan softly, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your apron “What if they hate my pastries?”

Your coworker stares blankly “That sentence is offensive.”

Before you can spiral further, familiar arms suddenly wrap around your waist from behind. Immediately, you melt slightly into the touch.

Joe

“You’re overthinking again,” Joe murmurs against your temple.

You sigh dramatically “What if your sisters hate me?”

Joe physically recoils “hate you?” he repeats like the concept personally offended him. “Honey, they already love you.”

“How?”

Joe laughs softly “Because I never shut up about you.”

Your face warms instantly “Joseph David.”

“It’s true,” he says shamelessly. “One time I called them just to describe your hot chocolate.”

“You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

The café is unusually quiet today. Soft jazz hums through the speakers while sunlight spills lazily through the windows, warming the glass pastry cases.

The whole café smells like sugar and espresso and vanilla.

Home.

Your home.

Joe’s favorite place in the world.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

The bell above the café door jingles. You immediately straighten. Only for your shoulders to drop again when you realize it’s not Joe’s sisters.

Instead, the old man from 6D slowly walks inside with his cane.

“Oh,” you mumble.

The old man narrows his eyes immediately “You sound disappointed to see me.”

You gasp dramatically “I would never.” Joe snorts beside you.

“Anyway, good afternoon, young lady,” the old man greets warmly as he approaches the counter.

“Good afternoon to you too, sir,” you reply with your sweetest smile. “What can I get for you today?”

“Just a banana pudding and peppermint tea.”

You nod immediately, preparing it carefully while he watches you fondly. When he reaches for his wallet, you shake your head. “No, it’s on the house.”

The old man pauses “And why is that?”

“A thank-you for watching Ponkan last week after he escaped into the hallway again.”

Joe laughs immediately. “That cat thinks survival is a game.”

“He fears absolutely nothing,” you sigh.

“Except baths,” Joe adds.

“True.”

The old man smiles softly before glancing toward Joe. Then suddenly points his cane at him accusingly “Don’t you ever break her heart.”

The old man was the first ever person both of you told that you two are finally dating. Well, you and Joe have no choice when the old man catches you and Joe kissing inside the elevator. 

Joe straightens instantly like he’s being interrogated by the police “Sir,” he says seriously, “I would literally die first.”

The old man nods approvingly “Good answer.”

About ten minutes later, the bell jingles again suddenly the quiet café fills with overlapping female voices.

“You said LEFT!”

“I DID say left!”

“Joe, your directions suck!”

“You all ignored my texts!”

You freeze immediately. Joe grins “They’re here.” and that makes your stomach flip harder. 

Four women walk into the café carrying the exact same chaotic energy as Joe.

 One notices him immediately. “There he is!”

Another points accusingly. “You made us walk around the block twice.”

“That’s because none of you listened to me,” Joe defends.

“You text like a forty-year-old father.”

“That’s genetic!”

Then, their eyes land on you. And suddenly all four sisters go suspiciously quiet. Joe notices immediately “Oh no,” he mutters. “Don’t do the thing.”

“What thing?” one asks innocently.

“The evaluating thing.”

“We’re not evaluating.”

“You absolutely are.”

Joe guides them toward the table near the windows while you wipe your suddenly sweaty palms against your apron. Then Joe turns toward you, his expression softening immediately.

“So,” he says warmly, “this is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

Girlfriend, the word still makes your heart flutter embarrassingly hard. You smile nervously. “Hi,” you say softly. “It’s really nice to finally meet all of you.” Immediately, all four sisters light up.

“Oh my god, she’s adorable.”

Joe drops his head dramatically against the table “Please don’t bully me in front of my girlfriend.”

“No promises.”

One sister grabs your hands instantly “You have no idea how much we’ve heard about you.”

Another nods “He talks about you constantly.”

“Like constantly constantly,” another adds.

Joe points accusingly “I trusted you people.”

“You called me once just to asked what’s the best give for a girl who loves to bake,” one sister says.

“I panicked!”

You burst into laughter while Joe turns red instantly. Unfortunately for him, the more embarrassed he gets, the more his sisters enjoy themselves. You start taking their orders despite their protests.

“Joe already picked everything for us,” one sister says.

“He has favorites,” another adds knowingly.

Joe shrugs proudly “Her food changes lives.”

Before you can retreat back behind the counter, one of your coworkers physically nudges you toward the table.

“I got it,” they whisper. “Go sit with your boyfriend before he starts looking emotionally distressed.”

“I do not look emotionally distressed,” Joe argues.

“You literally stare at her whenever she walks away.”

Joe gasps “I’m being attacked.”

“You’re in love,” one sister corrects calmly.

Eventually, you slide into the booth beside Joe. Immediately, his arm settles behind you naturally, fingertips brushing your shoulder absentmindedly. Easy, comfortable, like loving you became muscle memory already.

The pastries arrive one by one.

Honey Lavender Latte Cookies.

Strawberry shortcake.

Ensaymada.

Leche flan.

And for a moment, the table goes completely silent. You panic immediately “Oh no,” you whisper. “You hate it.”

Then one sister slowly lowers her fork “This,” she says emotionally, “is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Another points dramatically at Joe “You undersold her somehow.”

“I told you!” Joe says proudly.

“You described the hot chocolate as if it healed your childhood.”

“It DID.”

The table dissolves into laughter again. and somewhere nearby, your staff are very obviously pretending to mop the same spotless floor while listening.

Terribly.

Suddenly, the old man from 6D speaks up from the next table over. Without even looking away from his tea, he says: “It took those two MONTHS before they finally met in person.”

Silence.

Then all four sisters slowly turn toward him.

Joe chokes immediately “Sir.”

The old man continues calmly “I’m basically the matchmaker.”

Your eyes widen “Oh my god.”

“I watched the whole thing happen,” he says proudly. “Cupcakes outside doors. Sticky notes. Jazz through the walls.”

The sisters are already giggling uncontrollably “No way.”

“THIS is the cupcake neighbor story?!”

The old man takes another slow sip of his peppermint tea like he’s about to tell the greatest romance story of the century. Which, apparently, to him, he is. Meanwhile, you are actively trying not to slide underneath the table from embarrassment. Joe looks about two seconds away from doing the same.

One of his sisters leans forward immediately, fully invested. “No, wait,” she says. “Start from the beginning.”

The old man hums thoughtfully “Well,” he says, setting his cup down carefully, “it started with cupcakes and jazz.”

You let out a tiny horrified noise. Joe drops his forehead against your shoulder “I’m begging you.”

The old man ignores him completely “She moved into our floor carrying too many boxes,” he begins fondly, nodding toward you. “Tiny thing looked like she was one bad trip away from falling down six flights of stairs.”

“I was fine,” you mumble weakly.

“You were absolutely not fine,” the old man says immediately. “I remember because you tried carrying a lamp, three books, and a plant all at once.”

Joe laughs beside you “That sounds exactly like you.”

You glare at him “You’re supposed to defend me.”

“I can’t defend something that’s true.”

The old man points his spoon dramatically toward Joe now “And this idiot comes back from tour the next day.”

Joe sighs deeply, “Why am I the idiot already?”

“Because you heard jazz through the walls and immediately decided she was seventy years old.” The entire table erupts.

One sister literally wheezes, “THAT’S DEFINITELY JOE.”

Joe points defensively. “There was baking involved!”

“And Ella Fitzgerald!” the old man adds.

“AND Ella Fitzgerald!”

You bury your face in your hands while laughing, “Please stop.”

The old man continues proudly “Every evening after that, the hallway smelled like vanilla and butter. Like a bakery decided to move into the building. His voice softens slightly “Honestly,” he says, “the floor felt warmer after she arrived.” And suddenly everyone quiets a little because somehow that sounds exactly like you.

“She baked for everyone,” the old man continues. “Me. Neighbors from the fifth floor. The mailman once, even the landlord.”

“That landlord cried over her brownies,” Joe mutters.

“He did,” the old man agrees seriously.

One sister gasps dramatically, “She weaponized baked goods.”

Joe points immediately, “EXACTLY WHAT I’M SAYING.”

“And then,” the old man says with a grin, “she always left cupcakes, tarts, croissants, and post-it notes outside his door.”  The old man looks delighted now that he has a full audience. “Sometimes, he’d come asking me questions.”

Joe immediately shakes his head “No.”

“Oh yes,” the old man says smugly. “‘Do you think she’s really old?’ ‘Do old ladies usually listen to this much jazz?’”

The sisters are crying laughing now. One wipes tears from her eyes “You were profiling her based on Ella Fitzgerald.”

“She has a cat and listen to lots of jazz, not just Ella!” Joe argues helplessly.

“Meanwhile,” the old man says, turning toward the sisters now, “this young lady here kept pretending she wasn’t curious.”

You groan softly “Sir.”

“She’d ask me things too.”

Your eyes widen “I asked ONE thing.”

“You asked seven.”

Joe looks scandalized beside you “You asked about me?”

You immediately avoid eye contact “No.”

The old man nods calmly “She asked if he always played guitar that late.” Joe’s entire face softens instantly “And,” the old man continues, “she’d stop her music sometimes just to listen.”

The café suddenly feels too warm, way too warm. Joe looks at you carefully now “You listened?”

You shrug shyly “You sounded nice.”

Joe stares at you like you just handed him the moon itself. One sister gags dramatically “Oh, he’s in DEEP.”

The old man chuckles softly, “They spent nearly two whole months dancing around each other.”

“Not intentionally,” Joe mutters.

“Oh, intentionally,” the old man argues. “Both too shy.”

Joe gasps “I was not shy.”

The old man raises an eyebrow, “You thought she was a grandmother and tried to set me up with her.” The sisters lose it again. “And then,” the old man says dramatically, “came the great revelation.”

Joe immediately points, “Okay, no—”

“He told her to thank her grandmother for the pastries.” The entire table explodes into laughter so loud that even customers glance over. You physically lean against Joe because you’re laughing too hard. Meanwhile, Joe looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole.

“I DIDN’T KNOW.”

“You thought your girlfriend was seventy,” one sister wheezes.

“In my defense—”

“There is no defense,” you laugh.

The old man wipes imaginary tears from his eyes. “She looked at him and said, ‘My grandmother is dead.’”

Joe groans loudly, “I remember.”

“You turned white as flour,” the old man continues happily.

“You witnessed all this?”

“The walls are thin.”

Even your staff are openly laughing now. One of them literally sits on the counter to listen better. “But honestly,” the old man says softer now, glancing between the two of you, “I knew before they did.” The teasing fades slightly from the table.

Joe looks over at him curiously “Knew what?”

“That they’d fall in love.”

"Some people arrive loudly," he says. "like fireworks, you see them all at once. Bright, impossible to miss. They light up the whole sky, and for a moment, everybody stops to look." He glances between the two of you. "But the loves that last..." He shakes his head softly. "Most of them don't arrive that way."

The table falls quiet.

"Sometimes they arrive quietly. Like a song drifting through an apartment wall. At first, it's just background noise. Something you're barely aware of. Then one day you realize you've started listening for it." His eyes settle on Joe. "You notice when it's gone."

Joe goes very still.

The old man chuckles. "That's what happened with these two. One moved in with flour on her hands and jazz on her turntable. The other kept pretending he wasn't waiting for the next batch of cookies." Laughter erupts around the table. "She brought sweetness into that hallway," he continues. "Not just the kind you can eat. The kind that makes a place feel warmer than it is."

He points his spoon toward Joe.

"And this boy..." he says. "Before her, he walked through that building like he was always heading somewhere else. After she arrived, he started lingering. Started smiling softer. Started looking like he had somewhere he wanted to be." Joe immediately ducks his head while his sisters lose their minds.

"Our brother yearns," one of them whispers.

The old man ignores her. "And she wasn't any better." You groan while everyone laughs. "Every time she'd leave something outside his door, she'd stand there for an extra second, listening." His eyes twinkle. "Like she was hoping the door might open." Your face burns. "Then she'd walk away pretending she wasn't disappointed when it didn't."

Your jaw drops “You noticed that?”

“I’m old, not blind.”

Joe looks unbearably pleased suddenly “You lingered too?”

“Don’t start.”

“You lingered,” he repeats with the most lovesick grin imaginable.

"The funny thing about home," the old man says quietly, "is that sometimes it isn't a place. Sometimes it's a person." His gaze moves between the two of you. "And from where I was sitting, it looked like you two started finding your way home long before either of you realized it."

The old man leans back in his chair proudly “I’m telling you,” he says to the sisters, “those two were practically married before they even properly introduced themselves.”

The sisters burst into laughter again. Joe nearly chokes “Sir!”

And you, you’re laughing so hard your eyes water now. But beneath the embarrassment, beneath the teasing, your heart feels impossibly full. Because beside you, Joe is still holding your hand under the table. Still looking at you like you’re his favorite thing that’s ever happened to him. 

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

After that, Joe offers to walk the old man to the bus stop despite the man insisting he can manage perfectly fine on his own.

“You just want an excuse to stop me from embarrassing you further,” the old man says knowingly as he stands from the table.

Joe points accusingly. “You told my entire love story to my sisters.”

“And I’d do it again.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’m old,” the man corrects calmly. “It’s different.”

You laugh softly while Joe shakes his head, already helping the old man with his coat anyway. Before leaving, the old man pats your hand gently. “You take care of this boy, alright?”

You glance toward Joe instinctively. Joe is already looking at you , softly. Always so softly these days.

“I will,” you promise quietly.

The old man nods approvingly before pointing his cane toward Joe one last time. “And you..still don’t mess this up.”

Joe places a hand over his chest dramatically. “Sir, I’m trying to marry her eventually.”

The entire café goes dead silent. Your eyes widen instantly, Joe freezes. His sisters scream.

“JOE!”

“Oh my GOD.”

“THAT SLIPPED OUT.”

“I’M GOING TO PAINT THE ENTIRE WEDDING!”

Joe looks absolutely horrified at himself while your face burns hot enough to rival the espresso machine behind the counter.

The old man, meanwhile, looks deeply satisfied. “Hm,” he hums. “Good.”

Then he walks out smiling to himself while Joe groans into his hands. “You’re unbelievable,” Joe mutters while leaving with the old man.

One sister immediately leans across the table toward you, the second they leave.

“Eventually?” she whisper-screams.

“I—”

“Oh, please,” another interrupts dramatically, grabbing your arm. “He’s NEVER said things like that before.”

Your heart stumbles clumsily against your ribs. “He was joking,” you say weakly. Four identical looks immediately tell you they absolutely do not believe that.

One of Joe's sisters reaches for another Honey Lavender Latte Cookie. "Can I be honest?" she asks.

"Always."

She points the cookie at you dramatically. "You know what's funny?"

You tilt your head. "What?"

The sisters exchange looks immediately. The kind of look that says oh, we're about to tell on him. "Joe never stays on the phone."

You blink. "What?"

"Seriously," another sister says. "Growing up, we'd call him and twenty minutes later he'd be like, 'Okay, love you, bye.'"

"He'd disappear."

"Vanish."

"Evaporate."

The sisters nod solemnly "Like a Victorian ghost." You laugh.

"No, really," the oldest says. "We love him, but he's never been a phone person. You get twenty minutes if you're lucky."

"Thirty if he's feeling generous."

"Forty if mom guilted him first."

The table erupts into laughter. Then the oldest sister smiles "And then suddenly..." She drags the words out. "He starts calling us for over an hour."

You blink. "An hour?"

"Longer."

"Way longer."

"Painfully longer."

Your eyebrows shoot up. The sisters start nodding "Because he'd start talking about you."

You nearly choke on your coffee. "He talks a lot about me, huh?"

"Oh my God, yes."

The oldest sister points at you "YOU."

You stare at them "No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yeeees, hespent forty-five minutes talking about tulips."

Your face immediately warms. The tulips. The ones sitting in the vase in your apartment right now. The ones you'd pressed between pages of a book because you couldn't bring yourself to throw them away.

"He called me," another sister says, raising her hand. "To ask if buying someone a mug was weird."

The others burst out laughing "Oh my God, the mug phase."

"The mug phase?"

"He was obsessed."

You stare.

"He literally called me from Japan."

The sister places a hand over her chest dramatically "'Do you think she'd like this one?'"

"'What color would she pick?'"

"'Do you think she already owns this one?'"

Your heart does a small embarrassing thing inside your chest. You remember those mugs. The Sanrio collection now displayed proudly on your kitchen shelf. The mugs you use constantly. The mugs Joe always reaches for first whenever he's at your apartment.

"He really asked all that?"

The sisters look at each other, then immediately burst out laughing. "He asked MORE than that."

You hide your face behind your hands "Oh my God."

"We know about Ponkan too."

You lower your hands. "What?"

"We know everything about Ponkan."

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts. One sister points accusingly. "We know he steals bread." "He stole half a croissant once." "We know he screams outside the bathroom." "We know he sits on your recipe notebooks."

You stare at them, because some of these stories happened months ago. Things you'd mentioned once. In passing. Things you barely remembered telling Joe.

"We know about your café." "We know about your favorite Ella Fitzgerald records." "We know about your grandmother."

The teasing softens slightly, "We know how much she meant to you." Your smile grows smaller, for a moment you remembered her.

"We know about the first time you sold out of pastries." "We know about the little girl who comes every Thursday for cake pops." "We know about the customer who proposed here." "We know about your cinnamon hot chocolate."

Your eyes widen. "How do you know all this?"

The sisters exchange another look. Then the youngest smiles. “Because Joe told us."

The words settle gently between all of you. Soft as powdered sugar. Because Joe told us. Not because they asked. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to. Because somewhere between baking and music and elevator rides, you had become one of his favorite things to talk about.

The oldest sister reaches across the table and squeezes your hand. "The thing is..." Her voice softens. "Joe's always loved people."

You look up.

She smiles, "But with you?" her eyes crinkle. "He pays attention." The table falls quiet. Not awkward. "He remembers things now," she continues softly. "The day before he met you, he called me because he couldn't find his keys."

You blink "Okay."

"The day after he met you?" You wait.

"He called me because you neighbor liked jazz."

The entire table bursts into laughter. "And he smiled the whole conversation."

You feel your heart melt a little. Then a little more. Until it feels suspiciously similar to caramel left too long in the sun. And in the middle of all their stories, surrounded by coffee cups and crumbs and afternoon sunlight, you realize something.

You hadn't been worried whether Joe's sisters would like you. You'd been worried about whether you'd fit. Whether you'd belong. But sitting here now, listening to them laugh and tease and tell stories about the man you love. 

Now it’s just you and his sisters sitting together in the warm little café while soft jazz hums quietly overhead. The late afternoon sun spills gold through the windows, catching against empty coffee cups and half-eaten pastries.

Then Joe’s sister reaches over and gently takes your hand. Immediately, your attention snaps back to her. Her expression softens. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “Really, for making Joe this happy.”

The sincerity in her voice catches you off guard. You glance down shyly, fingers curling slightly around hers. “Oh no,” you murmur softly. “He’s the one always making me smile.” It’s true. 

You think about late-night pasta dinners in your apartment. About sticky notes left outside doors. About Joe showing up toys he bought for you cat. About guitar lessons turns into heavy make-outs. About Joe willingly to stay up late just because you’re experimenting.  You think about how naturally he’s settled himself into your life.

You smile softly and add, “I think I should be thanking all of you too.” The sisters collectively melt.

One of them sighs dramatically, “See? This is why he’s obsessed with you.”

Joe’s oldest sister watches you fondly “You know,” she says softly, “I don’t think I’ve seen him this genuinely happy in a really long time.” The teasing fades a little around the table “He smiles differently now,” another admits. “and lighter,” one adds quietly.

The words settle somewhere deep inside your chest.

You glance toward the café windows instinctively, like maybe Joe will suddenly appear outside. “He deserves that happiness,” you say softly, you mean it with your whole heart.

The sisters notice, of course they do. One immediately points at you dramatically “Oh, you’re staying forever.”

You choke on your own laugh “What?!”

“You love him, you’re in deep like him.”

Your face burns instantly “I—”

“She’s blushing,” another whispers loudly.

“She’s literally glowing.”

Before you can defend yourself, one sister leans forward excitedly. “We’ve already decided,” she announces.

“Decided what?” you ask nervously.

“You’re coming to Christmas.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh—”

“And don’t even THINK about saying no,” another adds immediately.

“Please bring those honey lavender cookies,” one says dreamily. “I’ve been thinking about them ever since Joe described them.”

“And the hot chocolate,” another says. “Apparently it changes lives.”

“It does,” you mumble automatically.

All four sisters point at you simultaneously “SEE?” You cover your face laughing while they all giggle with you.

By the time Joe finally comes back into the café, cheeks pink from the cold outside, he immediately slows when he sees the five of you laughing together like you’ve known each other for years.

Something in his expression softens instantly. Almost boyish, almost relieved.

One sister notices him first “There’s the lover boy.”

Joe groans “Can you all stop calling me things?”

“No,” they answer together.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

One by one, Joe's sisters finally begin gathering their things. The table is a disaster of empty coffee cups, pastry crumbs, and laughter that still seems to linger in the air.

"You can't leave yet," you complain lightly as one of them stands.

"We literally have a flight tomorrow."

"Details."

"She's already trying to keep us."

"Joe, your girlfriend likes us more than you."

"I do not," you say immediately. The sisters stare. You pause. "...Okay, maybe a little."

The café erupts into laughter. Before they can leave, you disappear into the kitchen and return carrying four paper bags. Each one tied neatly with ribbon.

The sisters immediately gasp. "Let me take a picture."

"No."

"You did not."

You smile shyly. "I did."

Inside are boxes filled with pastries. Honey Lavender Latte Cookies. Mini brioche rolls. Slices of banana bread. A few cupcakes and extra cookies because you know they'll disappear first.

"You really didn't have to do this," Joe's oldest sister says softly.

"I wanted to."

One of the sisters clutches the bag dramatically against her chest "I'm framing this."

"Please don't frame food."

"No promises."

Before leaving, each sister hugs you and every hug feels warmer than the last. By the time the final goodbye is said, you're no longer nervous around them.

Somewhere between the teasing and the stories and the pastries, they've started feeling less like Joe's sisters and more like people you've known forever.

"Christmas," one reminds you while backing toward the door.

"We're serious."

"Bring the cookies."

"And Joe."

"Mostly the cookies."

"HEY."

The bell jingles as they disappear outside laughing. Silence settles over the café. Not lonely silence, comfortable silence. The kind that comes after a really good day.

Your staff leaves shortly after, throwing you teasing looks on the way out. "Bye, lovebirds."

You watch Joe moving around, helping without asking. His hair is slightly messy from one of his sisters constantly ruffling it, standing there with a damp rag in his hand, he looks impossibly handsome.

"You know," you say softly.

"Hm?"

Your smile grows. "They really are wonderful."

Joe glances up. The relief on his face is immediate "I told you."

"I know." You wipe down the counter slowly. "I was still nervous."

"They would've loved you even if you served them burnt toast."

You snort "That's a lie."

"Okay, maybe not burnt toast."

"Thank you."

Joe pauses "For what?"

"For sharing them with me." 

Something gentle settles across his face. Your heart does that annoying little flutter again. Joe dries his hands on a towel before walking toward the counter. He leans against it and studies you quietly.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Joseph."

His smile appears  "I just like looking at you."

Your face warms immediately. "That's a ridiculous thing to say."

Joe reaches across the counter and catches your hand. Just because he can. Just because he wants to. His thumb brushes over your knuckles. A tiny gesture, an ordinary one.

Yet somehow it feels more intimate than every story told today. Outside, the city keeps moving. Cars pass. People hurry home. The world continues. But here, everything feels warm, sweet, slow. Like the last bite of dessert you're never quite ready to finish.

Joe squeezes your hand gently and when you squeeze back, his smile softens into something so full of affection it almost hurts. Neither of you says anything, you don't have to. The whole day already said it for you.

issy talks again: thank you all for the comments, reblogs, likes, and support. i love you all! XOXO

Morning arrives slowly inside Joe’s apartment. Not loudly. Not abruptly. Just softly creeping through the curtains in thin streaks of golden sunlight while the faint sound of something sizzling drifts through the apartment.

Bacon.

Coffee.

Butter hitting a hot pan.

The smell wraps around you gently, warm enough to slowly pull you from sleep. You blink awake slowly, still half tangled in sleep.

For a few seconds, you just stare at the unfamiliar ceiling above you.

Huh.

Your room looks… different. You frown slightly, still groggy, eyes trailing toward the bedside lamp, the scattered vinyl records near the shelf, the guitar leaning carefully against the wall.

Then it hits you all at once.

Oh.

Joe’s apartment.

The memories return in soft flashes. The blackout. The fire escape. The movie. Falling asleep on his shoulder while he rambled passionately about Star Wars.

Your face immediately warms. “Oh my God,” you mumble quietly into the blanket.

You sit up quickly, hair messy, heart somehow already nervous this early in the morning. For a second, you debate hiding here forever out of embarrassment but then the smell of breakfast reaches you again. to be honest, that wins.

You quietly step out of the bedroom and follow the sounds into the kitchen. The sight waiting there nearly stops you in your tracks.

Joe stands at the stove wearing a faded gray shirt and sweatpants, hair messy from sleep, humming absentmindedly to himself while flipping bacon in a pan.

Morning sunlight spills across the kitchen counters around him. Domestic enough to make your chest ache a little. Joe glances over his shoulder and immediately smiles when he sees you standing there.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Your stomach flips traitorously. “You say that to everyone who sleeps in your apartment?” you mumble sleepily.

Joe pretends to think about it “Nope. Exclusive offer.”

That pulls a laugh from you instantly.

Joe points the spatula toward you dramatically. “Sleep better?”

You nod, still smiling a little, “Yeah.” then you glance toward the stove. “What’re you making?”

“Very serious gourmet cuisine,” Joe says solemnly. “Bacon. Eggs. Toast. Life-changing stuff.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “A true chef.”

“Thank you. Finally someone appreciates me.”

You move closer into the kitchen, still waking up fully. The apartment smells overwhelmingly comforting this morning. Coffee brewing somewhere nearby. Toast. The lingering scent of cinnamon from last night’s rolls.

It feels less like visiting now more like belonging which is somehow scarier.

Joe notices you swaying slightly from sleep and points toward the dining table.

“Sit,” he says gently. “I’m almost done.”

You obey surprisingly fast.

Joe notices.

His grin widens immediately “Oh, so now you listen to instructions.”

“Don’t ruin this for yourself,” you warn.

A few minutes later, Joe carefully places a plate in front of you.

Bacon.

Toast.

Sunny-side-up eggs.

And written messily in ketchup across the side of the plate:

Movie date with me? ;)

You blink once, then again.

Your eyes slowly lift toward Joe and suddenly the world’s most confident musician looks deeply nervous standing in his own kitchen. One hand rubbing the back of his neck trying to act casual who ended up failing horribly.

“I know it’s kind of stupid,” Joe says quickly. “I panicked halfway through writing it and committed anyway.”

You stare at him another second before bursting into laughter, Not mean laughter—fond laughter. The kind that makes Joe immediately relax hearing it.

“Oh my God,” you mumble, grinning down at the plate again. “You asked me out with ketchup.”

Joe points defensively “In my defense, I hadn’t had coffee yet.”

“That somehow makes this worse.”

“Wow. Tough crowd.”

Still smiling, you reach across the table and grab the ketchup bottle yourself. Joe watches curiously while you squeeze out one careful word onto the edge of the plate.

Yes ♡

When you finish, you turn the plate around toward him proudly. For one full second, Joe genuinely looks stunned. Then his entire face softens into the most ridiculously happy smile you’ve ever seen.

“Oh my God,” he breathes.

You laugh shyly “What?”

“You said yes.”

“Well,” you tease lightly, “it’d be pretty awkward if I said no after sleeping in your apartment.”

Joe gasps dramatically “So this isn’t because of my incredible cooking?”

“Joe, the eggs are slightly burnt.”

“They have character.”

Before you can tease him again, Joe suddenly walks around the table and pulls you into a hug. A warm, sleepy, tight enough to make your heart stumble.

You laugh softly against his chest “It was kind of cute, though,” you admit quietly.

Joe pulls back slightly “The ketchup?”

“The asking me out like a divorced suburban dad.”

Joe clutches his chest dramatically “That’s devastating.”

“You literally wrote on a plate.”

“And you,” Joe says immediately, narrowing his eyes playfully, “are the girl who introduced herself by leaving mystery cupcakes outside my apartment with handwritten notes.”

“That was charming.”

“That was suspicious.”

You smack his chest lightly while laughing. Joe only laughs harder, arms still loosely wrapped around your waist.

And standing there in his kitchen, sunlight spilling around both of you while breakfast grows cold on the table it suddenly feels less like the beginning of something. and more like finally arriving there.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

It takes nearly an hour for you and Joe Keery to come up with a plan. Apparently, going on a normal movie date like regular people becomes significantly harder when one of you occasionally gets recognized on the street.

At first, the ideas are reasonable. Hoodies, caps, masks. Then somehow, Joe completely loses his mind.

“What if,” he says suddenly, sitting upright on the couch like he’s just solved world peace, “we disguise ourselves as old people.”

You stare at him. “…Joe.”

“I’m serious.”

“You sound insane.”

Joe points at you dramatically “No, listen. Nobody looks twice at old couples. They’re invisible to society.”

“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

“But effective.”

You laugh despite yourself.

Joe immediately notices “That laugh means I’m winning.”

“It means I’m concerned.”

Ten minutes later, Joe emerges from his bedroom wearing:

a knitted brown cardigan wire-frame glasses a colorful with black eanie and a scarf wrapped around his neck like somebody’s retired grandfather going birdwatching.

You blink slowly. “Oh my God.”

Joe spreads his arms proudly. “You see the vision now.”

“You look like you pay taxes early.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

When it’s your turn, you walk out wearing:

a long wool coat a floral scarf oversized sunglasses and one of your grandma’s old knitted beanies pulled low over your hair.

Joe freezes immediately “…okaaaay wait,” he says, pointing at you accusingly, “why are you actually pulling it off?”

You grin “Maybe I was born for this life.”

“You look like you make incredible soup.”

“I do make incredible soup.”

Joe places a hand over his heart “God, you’re perfect.”

The words leave his mouth so naturally that neither of you fully processes them but the silence afterward feels suspiciously warm.

Eventually, the two of you end up on the subway trying very hard to look inconspicuous. Which immediately fails because Joe keeps whispering commentary under his breath like this is  some kind of spy mission.

“Don’t look now,” he murmurs dramatically beside you, “but I think that guy just looked at us.”

You stare ahead. “Joe, we are dressed like somebody’s grandparents.”

“Exactly, we’re vulnerable.”

“You’re impossible.”

The subway rattles loudly beneath the city while you stand beside him gripping the overhead pole. Then suddenly, a teenage couple sitting nearby stands up.

“Oh!” the girl says quickly. “You guys can sit here.”

Both you and Joe freeze. “No no, that’s alright,” you say quickly, deepening your voice slightly to commit to the bit.

Joe has to physically look away to stop himself from laughing.

The teenage boy looks horrified “Sir,” he says to Joe, “you’re really gonna make your wife stand?”

Joe chokes immediately.

Your wife.

You bite your lip hard, trying not to laugh. Joe clears his throat, suddenly committing WAY too hard.

“Honey,” he says in the shakiest fake old-man voice imaginable, “let’s sit down before my knees give out.”

You nearly lose your composure instantly. 

The teenagers look painfully relieved once you both sit and that makes everything worse. Joe keeps staring straight ahead with the expression of a man fighting for his life while your shoulders shake beside him.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you whisper.

Without looking at you, Joe mutters, “You’re my subway wife now. Respect the commitment.”

That does it. You snort loudly enough that the teenage couple smiles at each other like they’ve just witnessed true love.

Which honestly? Makes both you and Joe embarrassingly flustered.

By the time you finally reach the theater, both of you are exhausted from pretending to be seventy. The second you step inside, you immediately pull off your sunglasses.

“Next time,” you declare, “we take a taxi.”

Joe adjusts his scarf dramatically, “I thought I was being smart.”

“You fake coughed three times.”

“That was character work.”

A few minutes later, you’re standing beside Joe near the concession counter while he somehow buys enough snacks for six people.

“You realize this is just two-hour movie, right?”

Joe balances popcorn and drinks carefully in his arms “I panic-order when I’m happy.”

Your chest warms embarrassingly at that.

Inside the theater, everything softens again dim lights, quiet chatter. The smell of buttered popcorn filling the room.

You settle into your seats while previews flash across the screen and somewhere in the middle of fixing your coat and adjusting the popcorn between you, Joe’s hand quietly finds yours.

Like it belongs there now neither of you comments on it. You just intertwine your fingers with his automatically and Joe smiles softly at the screen before the movie even starts.

The theater finally darkens completely. Then the title flashes across the giant screen: The Mandalorian and Grogu.

Joe whispers dramatically beside you, “This is cinema.”

You laugh quietly, “Please be normal for two hours.”

“I can’t promise that.”

Halfway through the movie, Joe keeps leaning over to whisper commentary into your ear. “This little guy would absolutely steal from me.”

“That’s because he senses weakness.”

“You wound me.”

“You bought four kinds of candy, Joe.”

“That’s survival instinct.”

At some point, your popcorn sharing turns into feeding each other absentmindedly. Not even flirtatiously anymore. Just soft, comfortable. Domestic in that dangerous way, couples become without noticing.

And somewhere between your quiet laughter, intertwined hands, and Joe’s thumb brushing absentmindedly across your knuckles during the movie—you realize this no longer feels like: two neighbors hanging out.

It feels like a date. A real one because it is. and judging by the way Joe keeps looking at you whenever the screen lights up your face—he knows it too.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

After the movie, Joe Keery leads you through several glowing New York streets before stopping in front of a small restaurant tucked between a bookstore and an old record shop.

Warm golden light spills through the windows.

Inside, soft jazz hums beneath the low chatter of conversations and clinking wine glasses. The entire place feels suspended in another decade. Romantic in that quiet, old-fashioned way.

You glance at Joe suspiciously as he opens the door for you. “This looks expensive.”

Joe places a hand dramatically over his chest,  “You wound me.”

“You brought me somewhere with candles on the tables.”

“It’s called atmosphere.”

“It’s called terrifying.”

Joe laughs softly as you step inside.

The hostess immediately brightens upon seeing him. “Reservation for ,Mr. Keery?” Your brows lift instantly.

You turn toward Joe slowly. “You made a reservation?”

Joe suddenly becomes very interested in fixing his cardigan sleeve. “Maybe.”

Your chest warms immediately because somehow this entire day keeps unfolding like he thought carefully about every part of it. The two of you are seated near the corner beside a window overlooking the city street.

Outside, New York glows softly beneath the evening rain. Inside, everything feels warm. Golden light. Wine glasses reflecting softly against candle flames. The faint sound of jazz floating through the restaurant like perfume. It feels unreal.

Dinner itself comes easy. Not because there’s a lot to say but because being around Joe has stopped feeling difficult a long time ago. You talk about everything and nothing at once. The terrible fake old-couple accents from earlier.

The movie.

Ponkan.

Joe’s sisters.

Your café.

The weird man outside the theater who tried to sell Joe a laser pointer for twenty dollars.

“You almost bought it,” you accuse.

“He made compelling arguments.”

“He said it could ‘change your life.’”

Joe points at you “And what if it could’ve?”

At some point, your steak grows cold because you’ve spent more time laughing than eating.

Joe notices first “You should probably eat before I accidentally flirt you into starvation.”

You nearly choke on your wine laughing. “That was horrible.”

“You liked it.”

Unfortunately, you did.

The longer the night stretches, the softer everything becomes. Joe’s hand resting closer to yours on the table. Your legs brushing beneath it accidentally. Then not moving away afterward. The candlelight flickering gold across his face while he smiles at something you said.

And God, you suddenly understand why people write love songs.

Then, the music changes, soft piano and gentle brass. A familiar voice floating through the restaurant air like warm velvet. Your eyes widen immediately.

“Joe,” you whisper excitedly, turning toward the small stage near the back of the restaurant. “Oh my God.”

Ella Fitzgerald.

Joe looks over casually despite the fact that he absolutely planned this.

“No way,” he says suspiciously unconvincingly.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “You look guilty.”

“I always look guilty.”

“That’s true.”

The jazz singer begins softly:

Let’s fall in love… Why shouldn’t we fall in love?

Your entire face lights up.

And Joe, God may help him. Joe thinks he could spend the rest of his life trying to make you smile like that.

Before he fully thinks it through, Joe stands from his seat and extends a hand toward you “May I have this dance, honey?”

The nickname alone nearly melts you into the floor.

You place your hand in his instantly. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Joe leads you gently toward the small open space near the stage. Neither of you are really good dancers but that makes it better.

Joe’s hand settles carefully against your waist while the other holds yours. Your free hand rests against his shoulder.  the second you move closer, everything else disappears.

Because suddenly all you can focus on is, the warmth of his hand against your waist, the smell of his cologne lingering softly between you, the way Joe looks at you like he still can’t believe you’re real

The music wraps around both of you slowly.

Our hearts are made of it… Let’s take a chance…

You sway together gently beneath the warm restaurant lights,  somewhere nearby, another couple joins in dancing. Then another. An elderly pair begins waltzing slowly near the edge of the room, smiling at each other like they’ve been in love for fifty years.

It should feel cheesy. Instead, it feels strangely magical. Like the entire universe softened for one evening just to let this moment exist.

Joe looks down at you, smiling softly. “You know,” he murmurs, “this is significantly better than pretending to be seventy on public transportation.”

You laugh quietly against him. “Debatable.”

“You called me your subway husband.”

“You fake-coughed at strangers.”

“It was immersive acting.” 

Your laughter fades softer this time because now you’re close enough to hear his heartbeat beneath the music.

Without thinking, your head settles lightly against his chest. Joe immediately stills, not because he dislikes it. Quite the opposite. Because honestly? He thinks he might remember this exact moment forever.

The song continues around you while Joe’s fingers trace absentminded patterns against your waist. And quietly, so quietly only you can hear—he leans closer and whispers: “You look really beautiful tonight.”

Your breath catches instantly, not because of the compliment. But because he says it like he means it, like it surprised even him.

“Even I dress up like a grandma?” you asked. 

“Especially, when you dress up like grandma,” Joe answered and kissed the top of your head. 

When you look back up at him, the space between you suddenly feels dangerously small. Joe’s gaze flickers briefly toward your lips. Then back to your eyes. Your heart stumbles hard enough that you’re sure he can feel it through your chest.

For one suspended second, it almost happens but then the song ends. Applause fills the restaurant. the moment breaks softly around the edges. not ruined, just postponed.

Which somehow feels even more romantic.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Still dressed as an elderly married couple, you and Joe Keery step back into the cool New York night after dinner.

The city glows around you. Streetlights shimmer against damp pavement from earlier rain while traffic hums softly in the distance. Somewhere nearby, music spills from an open bar door before disappearing again as people pass.

The entire night feels dipped in gold—warm and dreamlikelike something the two of you will remember years from now in strange little flashes.

Despite how full you already are, Joe suddenly slows in front of a tiny ice cream shop squeezed between two buildings.

You look at him immediately. “No.”

Joe looks at you innocently. “What?”

“We literally just ate steak.”

“And?”

“And dessert.”

“That was restaurant dessert. This is walking dessert.”

You stare at him. “That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

Five minutes later, you’re both holding ice cream cones while walking toward Central Park because apparently Joe is impossible to argue with when he smiles like that.

Your disguise somehow makes everything funnier. Joe still wears the oversized cardigan and glasses while your scarf remains wrapped around your hair.

At one point, a stranger opens a door for both of you and says: “Have a lovely night.”

Joe answers in his old-man voice: “You too, son.”

You nearly choke on your ice cream. “Please stop committing to the bit,” you laugh.

Joe looks offended “This is who I am now.”

“You’re eighty for one evening and suddenly you’ve accepted your fate.”

“I’ve lived a long life, sweetheart.”

“Oh my God.”

The two of you continue walking slowly beneath glowing storefront lights until Joe suddenly stops mid-step.

His eyes narrow dramatically, you follow his gaze. A claw machine inside a small arcade near the sidewalk. More specifically, a familiar pink plush sitting near the corner.

Joe points immediately “Isn’t that My Melody?”

You squint through the glass then gasp. “Oh my God, it is.”

Joe looks weirdly victorious about recognizing your favorite Sanrio character. “I knew it.”

“You remembered?”

Joe gives you a look “Of course I remembered.”

Before you can say anything else, Joe hands you his ice cream.

“Hold this.”

You blink. “…Joe.”

“I think I have change.”

“Joe.”

He’s already patting his pockets dramatically. You watch him crouch slightly in front of the machine like a man preparing for battle. Honestly? It’s kind of adorable.

“You know nobody actually wins these things, right?” you say, leaning beside him. “That’s literally how they make money.”

Joe inserts a coin without breaking eye contact with the machine “Not with that attitude.”

The claw drops, misses completely. Joe narrows his eyes.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “It’s learning my strategy.”

You laugh immediately. “That’s not how claw machines work.”

Second try, closer this time but still wrong.

Joe exhales sharply through his nose. “Interesting.”

“Joe—”

“No no, I’m understanding him now.”

“Him?”

“The machine.”

“You’re talking about it like a supervillain.”

“It started this.”

By the fifth attempt, Joe has fully entered his competitive era. His sleeves are rolled slightly now. His glasses have slipped down his nose. And he’s muttering things under his breath like:  “Okay… easy… easy…”

Meanwhile you’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “You’re losing money.”

“I’m gaining knowledge.”

“You’ve spent fifteen dollars.”

“That Melody plush is mocking me.”

A group of teenagers walking past slows down to watch. One of them whispers: “Come on grandpa, you got this.”

You immediately burst into laughter.

Joe points at them dramatically, “THANK YOU.”

The claw finally grabs Melody for one glorious second, before dropping her again.

Joe stares in complete betrayal. “Oh, that’s evil.”

You’re practically doubled over laughing now, one hand gripping his arm for balance. “Joe,” you wheeze, “please let it go.”

“No.”

“It’s a stuffed toy.”

“She believes in me.”

“She absolutely does not.”

Joe rubs a hand over his face dramatically before turning toward the bored teenage cashier working behind the counter.

“…Can I just buy that?”

The cashier blinks once “No.”

Joe looks genuinely heartbroken. You laugh again so hard you nearly spill your ice cream.

Finally, before Joe spends his life savings fighting a claw machine, you gently catch his wrist. His attention immediately shifts toward you and for a second, everything softens again.

Streetlights glowing against his face. The city moving around both of you. His hand warm beneath yours.

“You don’t have to win me things, you know,” you say quietly, smiling.

Joe looks at you for a moment too long then softer now, “I know.”

And somehow, that answer feels like it means more than the claw machine.

More than the toy.

Maybe more than either of you are ready to say out loud.

You tug gently on his hand “C’mon, old man.”

Joe intertwines his fingers with yours instantly, “Wow,” he says, walking beside you again, “using pet names already?”

“You literally called yourself grandpa ten minutes ago.”

“And you stayed with me.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away completely.

As the two of you continue toward Central Park hand-in-hand, Joe glances back once at the claw machine.

Then sighs dramatically “I could’ve won.”

“You absolutely could not.”

“You’ll never know now.”

“A pink rabbit was psychologically torturing you.”

Joe gasps softly “Her name is My Melody.”

And somehow, beneath the city lights and melting ice cream and ridiculous disguises, you think this might be the happiest you’ve been in a very long time.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Central Park feels quieter after the rain.

The pathways still glisten beneath the streetlights, reflecting little pools of gold against the pavement while the trees sway softly in the cold evening breeze. Somewhere in the distance, laughter echoes faintly before disappearing again beneath the hush of the city.

Everything feels softer and slower here. Like New York itself decided to exhale for one night.

You stand near the edge of the lake with your coat pulled tighter around yourself, watching the water ripple gently beneath the lights.

Behind you, the city still glows but here it feels far away.

A few minutes ago, Joe disappeared claiming he was “getting something important,” which honestly could mean absolutely anything with him.

So you wait, smiling faintly to yourself still wearing your ridiculous grandmother disguise.

Then, you feel someone step beside you. You turn and immediately freeze. Joe stands there slightly out of breath, scarf crooked from apparently rushing back, holding two takeaway coffees in one hand and flowers in the other.

Lilies and tulips.

Soft pinks and whites wrapped carefully in brown paper.

So painfully him. For a second, you just stare at him because throughout this entire night, he keeps finding new ways to surprise you.

Joe suddenly looks nervous beneath your silence. “Uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck slightly. “These are for the sweetest girl I’ve ever known.”

Your heart genuinely stumbles. “Oh, Joe…”

You take the bouquet carefully from his hands like it’s something fragile. Rainwater still clings faintly to the petals.

Without really thinking about it, you lean forward and kiss his cheek softly. Joe goes completely still—absolutely still as if his brain short-circuited.

When you pull back, his eyes widen slightly behind his glasses. “You can’t just do that,” he says weakly.

You blink innocently. “Do what?”

“That.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, grandpa.”

Joe laughs softly under his breath, shaking his head “You’re evil.”

Eventually, the two of you settle onto a nearby bench overlooking the lake. Steam curls from the coffee cups between your hands while your flowers rest carefully in your lap.

The city lights shimmer softly across the water, for a while neither of you says anything silence with Joe has never felt uncomfortable. It feels full instead.

Joe glances toward you eventually. His expression softer now, more vulnerable than usual “You know,” he says quietly, “I really thought you were somebody’s grandma.”

You burst into laughter immediately. “Oh my God.”

“No, listen,” he says, grinning now. “The music. The baking. The sweaters. You had a floral apron, for God’s sake.”

“You were profiling me.”

“I was surviving.”

Your laughter fades gentler this time.

And Joe looks down briefly at the coffee in his hands before speaking again.

“The first time I saw you,” he admits quietly, “in the elevator… before we actually met… I remember hoping you lived on my floor.”

You look at him, really look at him,  suddenly his voice sounds different.

Softer around the edges, and honest.

“I don’t know,” Joe continues, smiling faintly to himself. “There was just something about you already. Then we started leaving each other notes and pastries and suddenly…” He laughs quietly “You became part of my day before I even knew your name.”

Your chest aches softly Joe turns toward you fully now. Cold air brushes pink against his cheeks while the city lights catch in his eyes.

By heavens, you think you could spend years looking at him.

“I kept telling myself we were just neighbors,” he says softly. “Then friends.” His smile turns smaller.

fond

“But somewhere between your coffee and your music and free tasting on your apartment…” He pauses, looks at you like he’s trying to hand you something delicate “...you started feeling like home to me.”

The words settle carefully between you wrm enough to make your eyes sting a little.

Slowly, you reach up and adjust his scarf slightly where it sits crooked beneath his jaw.

Your fingers linger there, against his skin, against him.

“Joe,” you whisper softly, “when I moved here, I was terrified.”

He listens quietly.

“I thought New York is not a perfect city for me,” you admit with a small laugh. “Everything here moves so fast. Everyone always seems like they’re rushing toward something.” You glance down at the flowers in your lap briefly. “but then you happened.”

Joe’s breath catches softly.

“You made this city feel softer,” you continue. “Like maybe there was room here for someone like me after all.” Your thumb brushes gently along the sleeve of his coat “Finding you felt like coming home.”

Joe looks at you then like the entire world narrowed into one single person sitting beside him on a bench.

You

Only you

The air between you shifts quietly after that. Not awkward.Not uncertain. Just…full. both of you finally arrived at the same place after walking toward it for months.

Joe’s hand slowly lifts toward your face, careful. Like he’s asking permission without words. His fingers brush softly against your cheek. Warm despite the cold and when your eyes flutter slightly at the touch, Joe exhales shakily. Like even this feels too good to trust completely.

“You’re really here,” he murmurs quietly.

You smile softly “So are you.”

Then Joe leans in, slowly enough for you to stop him. Gently enough to make your heart ache. And when his lips finally meet yours—it feels warm.

Like the first sip of coffee on a rainy morning.  Like candlelight glowing through apartment windows.  Like jazz music drifting through thin hallway walls.  Like every note and pastry and lingering glance leading exactly here. 

The kiss is unhurried. Tender in the way only people deeply fond of each other can be. Joe’s hand cups your face gently while yours rests against his coat, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath it. And for one suspended moment, the entire city disappears.

When you finally pull apart, neither of you moves far. Joe rests his forehead lightly against yours, smiling softly.

“There goes the whole neighbor thing,” he whispers.

You laugh quietly, breathless “Yeah.”

Joe looks at you again, completely gone for you now “Worth it though.”

and honestly? you think so too.

After practice with the squad, you decided you deserved a milkshake. You survived another day, bleachers, chanting, fake smiles—so yeah. Milkshake earned.

You were halfway to the diner in your brother’s car, radio low, windows cracked, when something on the sidewalk made you slow down.

Dustin Henderson.

Steve’s best friend. Hellfire Club Legend. Local nerd.

He was walking his bike as it had personally offended him, the chain hanging loose. There was dried blood on his lip, a bruise already blooming along his cheekbone. His Hellfire shirt was torn at the chest, curls wild as he’d been through a storm.

He looked… annoyingly good. You frowned. Since when did that happen?

You eased the car to his pace and rolled down the window. “Wow,” you said. “Rough day, Henderson?”

He jumped, gripping the handlebars tighter. “Jesus—Harrington? What’s the worst thing that could happen now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Relax. I’m not my brother.” Then you tilted your head. “You look terrible.”

He snorted. “Wow. Thank you. I was really hoping the head cheerleader would confirm that.”

“Oh, you always look terrible,” you teased. “Today’s just more… festive.”

He rolled his eyes. “Go bother someone else.”

You should’ve driven off. Instead, you unlocked the door and nodded at the passenger seat. “Get in before Steve hears about this from someone else.” That did it.

A minute later, his bike was shoved into the back, and he was sitting shotgun like he didn’t quite believe it was real. You stopped at the pharmacy first—fluorescent lights, quiet aisles, his shoulder brushing yours as you grabbed antiseptic and bandages.

Then the diner.

Neon lights buzzed softly, red booths worn smooth by time. A few locals came and went, the smell of grease and sugar heavy in the air—your safe place.

Dustin watched you like you were the strangest thing he’d ever seen.

“This is, uh,” he said as you slid into the booth, milkshakes already ordered. “Not how I thought tonight would go.” You met his eyes, something electric settling between you.

 “Yeah,” you said. “Me neither.”

You slid out of the booth first, returning with a paper bag of supplies—cotton pads, antiseptic, bandages. The diner felt quieter now, late enough that only a few people lingered, neon lights humming softly above you.

“Okay,” you said, setting everything down. “Don’t move.”

“I can do it myself,” Dustin muttered, already reaching for the cotton.

You smacked his hand away without thinking. “No. You cannot.”

He blinked at you. “Wow. Violent.”

“Sit still, Henderson.”

He huffed but obeyed, hands retreating to his lap. You leaned closer, close enough to smell soap and metal and something distinctly Dustin. Carefully, you dabbed at the cut on his cheek.

Up close, it hit you.

This wasn’t the same boy you barely noticed in the halls. His curls framed his face differently now, softer somehow. His nose was still crooked, still Dustin, but his jaw had sharpened, freckles dusting his skin like constellations. There was a confidence there too—quiet, earned.

He’d had a glow-up. No denying it. You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus.

Once upon a time, he’d just been the nerd you got paired with during reading buddies in second grade. Too big glasses, shoelaces always untied. You remembered helping him sound out words, remembered how serious he looked doing it.

Now he was sitting across from you, letting you tend to his wounds like it meant something.

“Ow—” he flinched.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “Almost done.”

There was a beat of silence before you asked, softer, “So… what happened?” He hesitated.

“You don’t have to—”

“No, it’s fine,” he interrupted, shrugging. “Just… some guys. Didn’t like the shirt. or me.”

Your hand stilled. “They did this because you’re you?”

He gave a small, crooked smile. “Story of my life.” Something in your chest tightened. You finished cleaning the cut, pressing the bandage gently into place.

“Well,” you said, meeting his eyes, “that’s their loss.”

Dustin laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re weird, Harrington.”

You smiled.  “Yeah. Don’t tell anyone.”

By the time you finished patching him up, the food had arrived—two milkshakes, burgers, fries, all steaming and smelling like diner heaven. You set the tray between you.

“Eat,” you said, pointing at the burger. He stared at it, hesitant, poking at the fries with his fingers.

“Are you going to eat,” you asked, raising one eyebrow, “or do you want me to feed you?”

His eyes widened. “What—”

You just smirked. “I’ve got experience, Henderson.”

He rolled his eyes, but then took a tentative bite. Then another. You leaned back, satisfied.

“See? Not so scary.”

“Okay… you’re kind of terrifying,” he muttered, chewing.

You laughed. “Harrington’s blood.”

The first few bites passed in comfortable silence. Then, as he sipped his chocolate milkshake, you couldn’t help yourself.

“So… Steve,” you said, leaning back against the booth. “Your best friend. My brother. Tell me honestly, is he as overprotective as he looks, or is he secretly an embarrassment?”

Dustin snorted, shaking his head. “Both. He’s the ultimate walking paradox. One second he’s brooding, the next he’s handing out life advice I didn’t ask for.”

You laughed, fries in hand. “Classic Steve Harrington.”

“Seriously,” he said, leaning forward. “And his taste in girls? Absolutely questionable.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased. “And Nancy… that was an excellent choice.”

He almost choked on his milkshake, coughing, laughing at the same time. You joined in, the sound of it filling the little booth.

“Finally, someone with actual taste,” he said, wiping his eyes.

“See,” you said, grinning, “we make a good judging team.”

And for the first time that day, he relaxed completely. Fries, milkshakes, laughter—the world outside the diner felt far away. “You’re… weirdly fun, Harrington,” he said.

Under the table, your knees brushed against his. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he. Somehow, it felt… right. Small, almost insignificant, but electric.

By the time you both finished, fries gone, milkshakes half-empty, you leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

“Want me to drive you home?” you asked.

He shook his head, smirking. “Nope. My place is in the opposite direction, and… well, duh. You’re Steve’s sister. That would make things complicated.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Suit yourself,” you said, smiling, a little teasing.

The night air had cooled outside as you drove back to your house. Lights were off in the driveway—a good sign, Steve probably wasn’t home yet.

You slipped inside, kicking off your sneakers, and froze.

“Is this a proper time for a lady to come home?”

Your eyes darted to the couch. There he was. Steve. Sitting like a mom who’d caught her daughter sneaking out. Arms crossed, eyebrows raised, all judgment in one glare.

“Jesus, Steve, what the hell,” you said, exasperated—but also trying not to laugh.

You held up the diner takeout bag, casual as you could manage. “Dinner. From the diner.”

He blinked at you. Then blinked again. Then leaned back like someone had just handed him a neon sign saying you never do this.

“You… you brought me food?” he asked, voice shaky in disbelief.

“Yes, Steve,” you said, leaning against the wall, trying not to smile too widely. “It’s a thing people do. Occasionally.”

His jaw tightened, trying to hold back both confusion and… something else. You didn’t wait to see which, because honestly, you were still buzzing from the night.

The next morning, Steve dropped you off in the usual spot—his old Camaro rumbling softly, exhaust mixing with the crisp Hawkins air.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said, smirking.

“Wow, Steve. That’s… helpful,” you replied, hopping out of the car in your skirt, a crisp blouse tucked neatly in, and sneakers that somehow made the whole outfit effortless. Classic cheerleader vibes—but not mean. Not that you wanted to be, anyway.

Your friends were already waiting near the lockers. Max waved, hair messy but perfect in that effortless way. El gave you a small nod, quiet but approving.

“You look… extra today,” Max said, raising an eyebrow.

“Extra awesome, obviously,” you teased, flipping your hair and linking arms with them as you walked. Passing the lockers, you caught a movement across the hall.

Dustin Henderson. Standing with Mike, Lucas, and Will, backpacks slung carelessly over their shoulders.

He looked up, and your eyes met. Just for a moment, long enough that your stomach did that weird flip. Then he frowned slightly, confused, probably wondering why you were looking at him so… differently. You didn’t break the stare. Not yet. Instead, you gave the tiniest, teasing smirk and kept walking.

Mike leaned over to Dustin. “Uh… something’s up?”

“Nothing,” Dustin muttered, trying to play it cool, but his eyes kept darting back to you.

Max noticed too, smirking. “Someone got your attention, huh?”

El just rolled her eyes, muttering something about “teen drama.”

Dustin finally whispered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else, “What the hell…?”

And just like that, the day started—lockers clanging, sneakers squeaking, whispers floating through the hall, and that little spark between you and Dustin simmering under the fluorescent lights.

After class, the library of VHS tapes—okay, technically it was the small, dusty rental spot in Hawkins that somehow survived the 70s was quiet that afternoon. You had your hoodie up, your jeans were baggy, and your sneakers were scuffed. Totally… unrecognizable. Perfect cover.

You reached for the “Star Wars: Return of the Jedi” copy just as someone else’s hand grazed it.

“I got it first,” you said firmly, gripping the tape.

Dustin Henderson froze for half a second, then grinned. “Whoa—Harrington? Didn’t you like this movie?”

You shook your head frantically, tucking your hair into the hoodie. “Uh… no! Uh… it’s for a friend! Yeah, totally not me. Steve! Yeah, for Steve…”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, clearly suspicious. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You cursed under your breath, embarrassed. This was supposed to be a stealth mission to just enjoy a movie in peace, not be caught by the Hellfire Club legend himself. Without thinking, you started backing toward the door.

“Wait—”

His hand shot out and caught your wrist. Your eyes met, and your stomach did that familiar flip.

“You… we could, uh… watch it together. At my place,” he said, voice low and careful, like he was actually making a move.

You blinked. “You mean… you, me, Star Wars, at your house?”

He shrugged, trying to play it casual but failing spectacularly. “Yeah. Totally casual. No big deal. I just… figured, why not?”

You tried to protest, tried to get free, but the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you.

“Wow,” you whispered, heart thudding. “Henderson… making a move… on Steve Harrington’s sister.”

He smirked, letting go finally, but only after a teasing wink. “Yeah, don’t make it weird… you’re welcome.” And just like that, the most awkward, thrilling plan of your day was set in motion.

The glow of the TV lit Dustin’s bedroom in soft, flickering colors. You were curled up on the floor, hoodie pulled low over your head, clutching a pillow. Dustin sat on the bed, knees up, remote in hand, trying to act casual while your sneakers peeked out from behind the bedframe.

His room was a nerdy paradise—posters of spaceships and D&D maps covered the walls, comic books stacked in precarious piles, a lava lamp glowing orange in the corner. Action figures crowded the desk.

“Chewie’s my favorite,” you whispered, pointing at the screen.

“Obviously,” Dustin replied, smirking nervously.

Then—crash!—the front door slammed. Dustin froze.

“Oh no. Oh no. Oh no…” he muttered.

“I think that’s… Steve,” you whispered.

Dustin’s jaw dropped. “Holy—he’s here? What do I do?”

Steve’s voice boomed from the living room. “Henderson!  You seen my sister? I know you’re here!”

You were shoved under Dustin’s bed before you could protest. “What the fuck?!” you hissed, squirming into the dark.

“Shhh! Steve’s here!” Dustin whispered urgently, eyes wide. “He’s looking for you!”

“Looking for me? He’s my brother—Henderson, what the hell?”

“I know, I know, but we are not close in his eyes!” he hissed back, ducking slightly behind the bed as Steve’s heavy footsteps approached the bedroom door. “Just… hide. Don’t move.”

You pressed yourself flat, knees tucked to your chest, hoodie pulled over your head. The space under the bed was cramped, smelled faintly of carpet cleaner and comic books, and you could just barely see Dustin sitting cross-legged on the floor, tense as a coiled spring.

“Dustin…” you whispered. “I’m literally under your bed. This is so—”

“Not the time!” he hissed, glancing at the door. The door creaked open. Steve’s voice boomed from the living room first, then closer:

“Henderson! You’ve seen my sister, right? She was supposed to be home hours ago!”

Dustin swallowed, panic in full swing. “Uh… no! Uh… I mean… she’s… she’s probably… practicing her cheer routine with… uh… other girls! Yeah, that’s it!”

You rolled your eyes, muttering, “Really? That’s your excuse?”

He leaned down, whispering frantically. “Trust me! Steve cannot find out. You stay hidden. Just… stay under there, okay?”

You groaned. “This is humiliating. I’m literally hiding under your bed like a—like a… criminal.”

“Shh! Criminally cute, maybe!” he whispered back, eyes darting to the door.

Steve’s footsteps paused right outside the bedroom. Dustin grabbed the remote, pointing to the TV as a distraction. “Okay… breathe. Don’t laugh. Don’t—oh god.”

You tried not to giggle as Steve muttered outside, clearly suspicious: “Henderson… if you’re lying to me…”

Dustin froze, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “I’m… I’m not! She’s… she’s not here! I never see her!!”

The moment Steve’s footsteps faded down the hall, Dustin slumped onto the bed, burying his face in his hands.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” he muttered, swearing like a hurricane. “You didn’t tell him you were here?! Holy crap, you’re his sister, and I’m his best friend! This is—shit—this is catastrophic!”

You leaned casually against the wall, hoodie still over your head, arms crossed. “Don’t matter,” you said lightly.

“It does matter!” he shot back, looking at you, eyes wide, voice panicked. “I—he trusts me! He trusts me! And now you’re… you’re under my bed! Betrayal, panic, chaos, end of the world! I—ahhh!”

You blinked at him for a second. The way he was all frantic curls, wide eyes, panicked energy—it was… kind of cute. Seriously. Panic never looked so hot.

You rolled your eyes, creeping closer. “Okay, okay,” you said softly. Then, before he could protest or hyperventilate more, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

He froze.

“Shhh,” you whispered against his mouth, pulling back just enough to smirk. “Quiet. Stop panicking.”

His eyes blinked at you, wide and stunned. “Wait… what—?”

You smiled, letting your forehead rest against his. “Secret safe. For now,” you murmured.

He swallowed hard, still processing the sudden kiss, and muttered, “…you’re ridiculous. And I—I think… you’re insane.”

“Yeah, but pretty too, right?” you teased, ignoring the way his face flushed.

Dustin groaned again, half-laughing, half-panicking. “Oh god… I am so dead if Steve finds out.”

“Shhh,” you whispered again, kissing his cheek this time. “Not happening. Not today.”

A few days later, the gym buzzed with post-practice chaos. You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting your pompoms, smoothing out creases, brushing off stray hairs. The other cheerleaders had already started filing out, their laughter bouncing off the bleachers.

Dustin and his friends. Mike, Lucas, and Will were walking down the hall nearby, backpacks slung over their shoulders, heads bent together in conversation. Dustin’s eyes flicked toward you, and something mischievous sparked.

He scribbled quickly on a scrap of paper, folded it neatly, and as they passed by, he let it slip from his hand. It fluttered softly toward you, landing almost at your sneakers.

You glanced up, frowning at the paper. Dustin was already a few steps ahead, pretending not to notice, but his eyes were glinting, just barely glancing over his shoulder.

Curiosity piqued, you picked it up and unfolded it. Written in his jagged handwriting:

BATHROOM. NOW. – HENDERSON

You blinked, reading it again. Your heart gave a little skip.

You looked around, but the hallway was clear—his friends chatting beside him, Mike and Lucas oblivious. Dustin was just out of reach, walking with that casual, too-calm swagger, pretending nothing was happening.

A grin tugged at your lips. “Bathroom… huh?” you murmured, tucking the paper into your pocket.

Dustin turned the corner, glancing back over his shoulder, lips twitching like he knew you’d get the message. You adjusted your pompoms, pretending to be busy, your pulse thrumming faster than it should. This was his move—bold, flirty, and slightly ridiculous, and you were already hooked.

“Alright, Henderson,” you whispered under your breath. “Let’s see what you’re up to.”

You were leaning against the bathroom sink, adjusting your ponytail, when Dustin finally leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes darting like he’d been rehearsing the words a thousand times in his head.

“Okay,” he said quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “So. I’ve been thinking. A lot. Which is bad, because when I think too much, I spiral, and then I say dumb stuff, and—”

“Dustin,” you interrupted gently. “Breathe.”

He inhaled. Exhaled. Met your eyes again.

“I like you,” he said. “Like… not in a ‘Steve’s-sister’ way. In a ‘you-make-my-day-weirdly-better’ way.”

Your heart skipped.

“And I know you’re busy,” he continued, gaining a little confidence now, “and popular, and terrifyingly confident, and I’m… me. Nerdy, awkward, can’t stop talking about D&D and science experiments that usually explode. And yet, I kept hanging around your house, hung out with Steve just to—” He looked down, embarrassed. “—just to see you. I’d tell myself it was about him, but really… it was about you.”

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, letting a slow smile form. “Really? You came over to hang out with my brother… just to see me?”

“Yes. And I was wondering if maybe—” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, “—you’d want to go out with me. Like. On purpose. Not secretly. Not accidentally. An actual date.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “You’re asking me out?”

He shrugged, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Officially. With words and everything.”

You stepped closer, close enough that his breath hitched. “And what if I say yes?”

His grin spread slowly, hopeful, bright. “Then I’ll take you to your favorite diner. Or the arcade. Or both. I’ll even let you win at skee-ball.”

“Oh, that’s generous,” you said dryly.

He leaned in just a little, voice lowering. “I’m kind of a catch, Harrington.”

You laughed, then reached up and tugged lightly on the collar of his Hellfire shirt. “You’re very cute when you’re confident.”

His ears went red instantly. “Oh god.”

“So,” you said softly. “Yes. I’ll go out with you.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. “Wait—really?”

You nodded. “Really.”

He let out a breathy laugh, eyes lighting up like he’d just won something huge. “Holy shit. Okay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

You smiled, leaning in just enough to whisper, “Guess you finally made a move, Henderson.”

He smirked back, nerves still buzzing. “Yeah. Took me long enough.”

A week later, you were sprawled on the couch in the living room, flipping through channels with Steve while he ranted about… something, as usual.

“And I swear, Henderson is just—he’s weird,” Steve said, tossing his hands in the air. “Like, he smiles too much, y’know? And when I try to tease him about it, he just… laughs! Normally, he’d have some ridiculous comeback, but now… nothing. Just laughter. It’s—ugh!”

You rolled your eyes, pretending to flip your hair dramatically. “Weird, huh?” you teased lightly, trying not to smile too wide.

Steve shot you a glance. “Yeah, seriously. I don’t get it. He’s… just… not like his usual self. And it’s pissing me off.”

You bit your lip, hiding the grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. Yeah, you definitely knew why. Secretly, Dustin wasn’t just smiling. He was smiling because of you. Because of the stolen kisses in his bedroom, the flirty movie nights, the late-night calls with him that made him giddy all day.

You snorted quietly, pretending it was a cough.

“Oh god…” Steve groaned, throwing his hands up again. “I’m losing my mind over this. He’s… ugh. Just… weird. And now I think I’m losing my mind? No! I don’t! Whatever…”

You smiled to yourself, letting the secret little warmth settle in your chest. Dating Dustin had turned everything into a tiny thrill—he’s yours, but Steve had no idea yet.

“Yeah,” you said casually, leaning back, voice soft. “Weird… just like you.”

Steve blinked at you, confused. You didn’t care. You were too busy secretly grinning like an idiot.

The neon buzz of the diner greeted Dustin as he slipped in, looking around nervously even though he had done it a couple of times. He spotted you already sitting in your usual booth, sipping a milkshake, cheerleader —but you were grinning like a cat who got the cream.

He waved at you, trying to act normal, until a shadow fell across the doorway. He froze.

“What the—?” Dustin muttered under his breath. His eyes widened. Mike, Will, and Lucas were crouched behind a display of ketchup packets, clearly following him.

“What the fuck are you guys doing?” Dustin hissed, glaring at them. “Are you following me?!”

You leaned back in the booth, smirking. Your eyes sparkled as Dustin’s panic hit peak levels. He quickly waved at you, signaling: they’re here. You raised one eyebrow and gave a small, teasing nod.

Mike, trying to act casual, shrugged. “Uh… we were just… curious?”

“Curious?” Dustin repeated, jaw tight. “Curious? You followed me to a diner, crouched behind like we’re in some spy movie, and you call that ‘curious’?”

Will shuffled his feet. “Well… we thought maybe—”

“Maybe what?” Dustin snapped. “Maybe I’m meeting someone? Maybe I’m… doing something normal for once?! Jesus Christ, do you want me to lose it right here or later?!”

You couldn’t help but laugh quietly from the booth.

Lucas raised his hands. “Okay… okay… chill, dude. We just… speculated—”

You leaned back further, voice dripping with casual venom. “Speculated? Ohhh, right. You three—Mike, Will, Lucas—are the absolute pinnacle of subtlety and stealth. Truly terrifying. The world should beware of your covert spy skills. Bravo. Truly scary. Truly horrifying.”

Lucas leaned back, smirking. “Ohhh… so the two of you are dating, huh? Didn’t see that coming.”

Dustin’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. “Wait! Wait! No! Don’t—don’t say anything to Steve! Please! Please don’t tell him!”

You bit back a laugh, looping an arm casually through his. “Relax, babe. I got this.”

He leaned into you, voice low and desperate. “I swear… if he finds out—”

“Shhh,” you said, pressing a finger to his lips. “He won’t. Our secret’s safe with me… for now.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “Mmm… cute. And here I thought Henderson couldn’t get any weirder.”

You snorted, mock-offended. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know my boyfriend is perfectly competent—well… competent and ridiculously cute.”

Mike, Will, and Lucas finally shuffled toward the door, muttering under their breath, their speculation and curiosity thoroughly demolished by your casual roasting.

Steve wasn’t home.

That alone felt dangerous. Dustin climbed through your window like a criminal, landing awkwardly on the carpet with a soft thump. You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

“This is a terrible idea,” he whispered.

“You climbed in anyway,” you whispered back, grinning.

Your room was… very you. Soft ribbons pinned to the mirror, poetry books stacked on your nightstand, makeup scattered across your desk like controlled chaos. Your cheer bag hung on the chair. It smelled faintly like vanilla and clean laundry.

Dustin froze, eyes wide. “Wow,” he breathed. “It’s… really girly.”

“Shut up,” you said, pushing him lightly onto the bed.

He laughed quietly, nerves melting as you curled up beside him. You lay chest to chest, his arm awkwardly around your waist at first, then more confident. His head rested near your shoulder, curls tickling your neck.

“This is nice,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

Your lips found his—slow, soft, a little clumsy. Nothing rushed. Just warmth, hands holding onto fabric, quiet laughs between kisses. You pulled him closer, and he smiled against your mouth like he couldn’t believe this was real.

Then—

CAR DOOR SLAMS.

You both froze. “Oh my god,” Dustin whispered, color draining from his face. “That’s Steve.”

Footsteps. Keys. The front door opening. Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

“What—why do I smell men’s cologne?” Steve’s voice rang out.

Dustin shot upright, panic-stricken. “I’m dead. I’m so dead.”

“Hide,” you hissed. “Window. Now.”

Steve’s voice got louder. “I KNOW THERE’S A BOY IN YOUR ROOM!” Dustin went pale.

“DON’T YOU DARE HIDE HIM,” Steve shouted, “OR I SWEAR I’LL HIT HIM WITH MY BAT!”

“Okay—okay—window!” Dustin whisper-yelled. You grabbed his face, pulling him into one last kiss—quick but full, like a promise.

“Go,” you whispered.

He climbed out, barely catching himself as he dropped. You watched his shadow disappear just as your door flew open. Steve stood there, bat in hand, eyes scanning the room. All he saw was the faint shadow of someone vanishing outside.

“…Unbelievable,” Steve muttered.

The next afternoon, your house was buzzing. Steve had invited everyone—Robin, Lucas, Mike, Will, El, Max, and “a friend” over for a casual BBQ. The others were splashing in the pool, laughter echoing across the backyard, while you sat at the edge, dipping your toes in the water, watching Dustin fidget by the grill.

Steve, tongs in hand, was on full rant mode. “Okay… so last night—someone climbed in through my sister’s window! I don’t care who it was, that’s not normal! Sneaking around her room like that?!”

Dustin’s eyes went wide. “Uh… well… it’s… you know… normal… because she’s… beautiful,” he said quickly, voice high and panicked.

Steve turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“She’s… like her mom,” Dustin blurted, hands twisting the spatula nervously. “Pretty… smart… totally harmless. Totally normal. Nothing suspicious at all.”

Steve squinted, muttering something about responsibility, while Robin, leaning casually against the counter, smirked. “Hmm… must be fun, doing little… tricks on someone’s sister, huh?”

Dustin coughed, nearly dropping the spatula. “Uh… tricks? Yeah… tricks! Totally… innocent!” He forced a laugh, eyes darting toward the pool where you were just casually soaking in the sun.

From your spot, you couldn’t help but grin. He was so flustered, twisting his words, stumbling over explanations, desperately trying to protect your secret. Every stammer, every awkward defense—it made him look impossibly cute.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “Dude… you’re really stressing over this, huh?”

Dustin muttered something under his breath, hands shaking slightly. “…she’s… beautiful… can’t let Steve know…”

You watched him, hiding your smirk, thinking: wow… it’s actually really hard for him to keep your relationship secret. And honestly? That just made him even cuter in your eyes.

Steve, oblivious to who the boy really was, kept muttering about “kids these days” while Dustin continued fidgeting as his life depended on it, tossing burgers onto the grill with exaggerated care.

The party was winding down, the pool lights glowing softly as laughter faded into easy conversation. You stood by the back door, arms crossed, watching Dustin across the yard as he argued with Lucas about something entirely too serious for a Saturday night.

He glanced up—and froze when he saw you looking at him. For a second, he forgot what he was saying.

You smiled, small and knowing. When no one was watching, you lifted two fingers to your lips and blew him a kiss. Dustin’s brain short-circuited.

His face went red instantly, mouth falling open as Lucas snapped his fingers in front of him. “Dude. Earth?”

Dustin swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to you just in time to see you wink—quick, subtle, devastating. He grinned like an idiot.

You slipped back inside the house before anyone could notice, heart light, secret safe—for now.

And across the yard, Dustin Henderson stood there smiling to himself, already counting the seconds until he could see you again.

End.

It’s been three days since you and Joe agreed to get coffee. And, the idea has only gotten more complicated. It was everything around it. The possibility of being seen. Recognized. Followed. The kind of attention you’ve never wanted, never asked for—something that belongs to his world, not yours. The thought sits uneasy in your chest. So instead, You invite him over.

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

“So…” he continues, a little more sure now, “would you maybe want to grab coffee sometime?”

You study him for a second—not seriously, just enough to make him a little nervous.

“Only if you’re willing to teach me how to play guitar.”

Joe blinks then smiles,  “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can do that.”

You nod once, satisfied. “Then we’ve got a deal.”

Another beat lingers between you—quiet, warm, something new settling in the space where there used to be just a wall.

The hallway still smells like sugar but now it feels like something else, too. Something just beginning.

“Oh, wait,” you say, suddenly, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “I don’t… really want to be famous.”

Joe frowns slightly. “What?”

“The paparazzi,” you explain, a little more quietly now. “I don’t like that kind of attention.”

Something in his expression softens immediately. “Oh! yeah,” he says, nodding, understanding settling in easily. “Yeah, I get that.”

He rubs the back of his neck, thinking. “So… what do we do then?” he asks. “No coffee?”

You hesitate for a second, “I can make some.”

His brows lift.

“I’m a barista and baker,” you add, a small smile forming. “I actually own a small café. Five blocks away.”

Joe stares at you. “…of course you do.”

You laugh. “What does that mean?”

“I mean you bake like that, you play old jazz, and now you’re telling me you own a café?” He shakes his head, smiling. “This is all very on brand for you.”

“Oh, so now you’ve got me figured out?” you tease.

“Not even close,” he admits. “But I’m working on it.”

You tilt your head slightly, amused. “Sounds like you’re fan-girling.”

He grins. “Fan of your baked goods, yeah.”

That earns a soft laugh from you, and a beat passes. Then you shift slightly, the idea forming more solidly now.

“How about Sunday?” you say. “You can come over. I’ve been experimenting with new flavors for the café anyway… you can be my taste tester.”

Joe’s face lights up immediately, no hesitation, no pretending to think about it.

“I am honored,” he says, placing a hand over his chest like it’s a serious commitment. “Sunday it is.”

You smile. “See you then, Joe.”

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “See you.”

He lingers for half a second longer than necessary. Then you step back the door closes gently between you.

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

And now, three days later, Sunday arrives. It lingers in the air like something you’ve been waiting for without wanting to admit it.

You’ve cleaned your apartment more than necessary.

Not just tidy—polished, like you’re trying to smooth out every corner, every surface, every tiny imperfection that suddenly feels too visible. The kind of cleaning that isn’t really about the space but about the person who’s about to step into it.

Your orange tabby cat, Ponkan, sits perched on the edge of the couch, watching you with quiet judgment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumble, adjusting a cushion for the third time. “He’s my second visitor, okay? This is a big deal.”

Ponkan blinks slowly, unimpressed. You sigh, glancing around one last time. Everything smells like sugar and coffee like you.

An hour passes faster than you expect. Then, a soft knock but enough to make your heart stumble just slightly.

You wipe your hands on your floral apron the one your grandmother made, the fabric worn soft with time, like it carries her hands in every thread.

For a second, you hesitate. Then you open the door and there he is. Joe stands in the hallway, looking just a little unsure of himself, a small bouquet of tulips held awkwardly in his hand like he’s not entirely convinced he made the right decision.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you echo, softer.

There’s a brief pause one of those moments that stretches just enough to feel real. Then he clears his throat slightly, holding the flowers out toward you.

“Oh...uh, these are for you.”

You blink, surprised. “For what?”

He lets out a small, nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Honestly? I don’t know. I just… didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”

Something about that simple, a little clumsy, makes your chest warm. You take the tulips carefully, fingers brushing his for just a second.

“Well,” you say, smiling now, “thank you. They’re perfect.”

You glance toward your kitchen. “They’ll look nice in my new vase.”

His shoulders relax, just a little. “Good,” he murmurs.

You step aside, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

Joe steps inside slowly, like he’s entering something delicate. Your apartment wraps around him immediately

That’s the first thing he notices. Soft colors, soft lighting, soft music drifting quietly through the air—Ella Fitzgerald already playing in the background like she belongs here.

The walls carry faint floral patterns, not loud, just enough to feel like something blooming quietly beneath the surface. The air smells like sugar and freshly brewed coffee, warm and comforting in a way that makes his chest feel unexpectedly tight.

It feels like something alive like a place that’s been loved into existence.

It’s so different from his. Where his space is scattered guitars leaning against walls, empty bottles, unfinished thoughts, yours feels intentional. Gentle, everything has a place, and everything belongs.

Joe exhales softly, almost to himself. “Wow.”

Before he can say anything else, something brushes against his leg.

He jumps slightly. “Oh—”

You turn, already smiling. Ponkan circles around him, tail flicking lazily as if he’s inspecting a new piece of furniture.

“Oh, he likes you,” you say. “That’s rare.”

Joe lets out a breathy laugh, crouching slightly as he reaches down to pet him. “I feel honored,” he says. “What’s his name?”

“Ponkan.”

Joe smiles, scratching gently behind the cat’s ears. “That’s a cute name.”

You move into the kitchen, placing the tulips carefully into a vase, adjusting them until they sit just right. It adds something new to the room.

You glance over your shoulder at him, suddenly feeling a small flutter of nervousness again.

“I, uh… already made a few things,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing just a little. “Are you ready?”

There’s something almost childlike in the way you say it—like you’re about to show him something you’re proud of.

Joe looks up at you, leaning slightly against the counter now, more relaxed than before. “More than ready,” he says.

But his eyes linger on you for just a second longer than necessary. Like maybe he’s not just talking about the sweet treats. 

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Joe is sitting on your kitchen counter like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged there.

One leg swings slightly as he watches you move around the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, apron dusted faintly with flour. The afternoon light spills in through the window, soft and golden, wrapping around everything—the counters, the cups, you.

In the background, Ella Fitzgerald fills the room. It’s a lovely day today…

You place the first plate in front of him carefully, like you’re presenting something fragile. “Okay,” you say, a little breath of excitement slipping through. “First one.”

He leans forward immediately, interested. “Honey Lavender Latte Cookies,” you announce, trying and failing to sound professional. “Espresso sugar cookies with honey lavender buttercream. Basically… your favorite drink, but in cookie form.”

Joe blinks at the plate. Then at you. “…that’s insane,” he says, already reaching for one. “The name alone makes me want to cry a little.”

You laugh.

He picks up a cookie, holding it up slightly. “Cheers?”

You hesitate for half a second then pick one up too. “Cheers.”

You both take a bite at the same time.

Joe’s brows lift almost instantly, eyes widening just a little as he chews. The texture is soft, just slightly crisp at the edges, the espresso warm and deep, the honey lavender frosting melting into something floral and sweet.

“…oh.” He looks at you. “Wow.”

You lean forward slightly, searching his face. “Really?”

“Oh my god, yeah,” he says, already taking another bite. “This is—this is stupid good.”

Relief floods your expression so quickly it’s almost visible. “Oh, thank god,” you laugh softly. “I was actually nervous about that one.”

Joe glances at you and then pauses. A grin slowly spreads across his face.

“What?” you ask, instantly suspicious.

He leans forward a little. “You’ve got—”

Before you can react, his hand lifts, gentle and unhurried. “There,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb lightly across the tip of your nose.

Your breath catches. For a second, just a second everything stills. The music softens into the background. The air feels warmer, quieter, like it’s holding its breath with you.

You’re close enough to see the small details—his lashes, the faint crease near his eyes when he smiles, the way his hand lingers just a fraction longer than necessary.

“…you had frosting,” he adds, softer now.

“Right,” you say.

But you don’t move away immediately. Neither does he. The oven timer goes off. You blink, stepping back quickly, heat rising to your cheeks. “I—uh—let me get that,” you say, almost too fast.

Joe lets out a quiet breath, running a hand through his hair as you turn away. “…yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

You pull the next tray out of the oven, warmth blooming into the room again like nothing ever happened.

Like something didn’t just happen.

You plate it carefully, adding finishing touches—grated cheese, a light dusting of sugar.

Joe watches you the entire time. Not even trying to hide it.

“What’s that one?” he asks, leaning forward again.

You glance up, smiling a little. “It’s a buttery adaptation of the Spanish ensaïmada,” you explain. “Soft, fluffy, kind of like a brioche. Sweet, but light. Usually topped with sugar, buttercream… sometimes cheese.”

Joe stares at it. “okay, that’s already a lot for me to handle.”

You laugh, placing it in front of him. “And,” you add, reaching for two mugs, “I made hot chocolate. But not the usual kind.”

He tilts his head, curious.

“Tablea,” you say. “Pure cacao. Roasted, ground, molded into tablets. It’s more… bittersweet earthy.” You set it down in front of him.

Joe rests his chin on his hand, studying the setup like it’s a serious decision.

“I’m intrigued,” he says.

“Good,” you grin. “You should be.”

You nod toward the plate.

“Go on. Try it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Joe tears off a piece of the pastry, steam still rising faintly from it, and takes a bite.

His eyes close. “oh my god.”

You laugh immediately. “That good?”

“That’s illegal,” he says, opening his eyes again. “You can’t just casually make something like this.”

You lean against the counter, arms folding loosely. “You can dip it,” you suggest, nodding toward the hot chocolate. Joe follows your lead, dipping the soft pastry into the dark liquid before taking another bite.

“Okay,” he says, pointing at you. “That’s—no. That’s perfect.”

You smile, softer this time. “Yeah?”

“The sweetness and the bitterness,” he gestures vaguely, like he can’t quite find the right words. “It just works.”

You nod, a little proud. “Back home, we usually have that during Christmas,” you say. “I was thinking of maybe adding it as a seasonal special.”

Joe freezes mid-bite. “…no.”

You blink. “No?”

“You cannot serve me this and then tell me I can only have it once a year.”

You laugh. “It’s a holiday thing.”

“That’s not fair,” he insists, shaking his head. “That’s cruel, actually.”

You raise a brow, amused. “Cruel?”

“Yes,” he says seriously. “You’re depriving the people.”

“The people?” you echo.

“Me,” he corrects immediately.

That pulls a laugh out of you. “Okay, okay,” you say, holding your hands up. “I’ll think about it.”

Joe grins. “Attagirl.”

The word lands softer than it should. Warmer, too.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, turning slightly to prepare the next dish—but not before glancing at him again. And he’s already looking at you, he has been this whole time.

You slide the next dish into the refrigerator with a kind of care that borders on ceremony, adjusting the container like it’s something fragile, something that matters more than it probably should.

“That one needs to chill,” you say over your shoulder, brushing your hands against your apron. “So… we wait. About an hour.”

From the counter, Joe groans dramatically, tipping his head back like he’s been personally wronged.

“An hour?” he repeats. “You’re telling me I survived everything you’ve made so far just to be betrayed like this?”

You glance at him, amused, reaching for a glass.

“You’ll live.”

“That’s still up for debate.”

You slide the drink toward him anyway—iced, creamy, caramel ribboning through the milk like something painted instead of poured.

“Ice milky salted caramel,” you say. “Peace offering.”

Joe’s fingers brush yours as he takes it, and for a second, it feels like touching something warm and electric at the same time. He mouths a quiet “thank you” before taking a sip.

Then he pauses.

Slowly lowers the glass, points at you. “…okay.”

You blink. “Okay what?”

“You need to stop doing that,” he says, narrowing his eyes like he’s onto you. “You can’t just casually make things taste like this.” 

You laugh, leaning back against the counter. “Like what?”

“Like I’m never gonna enjoy anything else ever again.”

You bite back a smile, but it shows anyway.

Conversation unfolds easily after that, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to exist.

Joe talks about his tour first—about long nights and louder crowds, about cities that blur together into flashes of neon and noise, about the strange in-between moments where everything goes quiet and he forgets, briefly, where he is.

“And this one guy,” he says, gesturing animatedly with his free hand, “just climbs on stage. No warning. No hesitation. Like he belongs there.”

You laugh, leaning forward slightly. “Did you let him stay?”

“For a second,” Joe grins. “Honestly, I respected the confidence.”

“And then?”

“And then security remembered they had jobs.”

Your laughter softens, settling into something quieter, more comfortable.

“And you?” he asks after a moment, voice gentler now. “Your café?”

Something in you shifts at that—like a light turning on.

You talk about it the way people talk about things they love without realizing it. Early mornings. The smell of fresh bread before the sun rises. Regulars who don’t need menus anymore. The way the bell above the door sounds different depending on who walks in.

“It’s small,” you say, almost like you need to explain it.

But Joe shakes his head before you can. “That’s not a bad thing.”

You look at him.

“It’s yours,” he adds simply.

And the way he says it makes it feel bigger than anything else, before you can respond, a soft weight lands on his lap.

Ponkan.

The cat circles once—slow, deliberate before settling like he’s claimed territory.

Joe freezes, blinking down at him. “Well,” he says after a second, “this feels like a decision I wasn’t consulted on.”

You laugh. “Ponkan really likes you.”

He scratches gently behind the cat’s ear, careful at first, then more confident when Ponkan leans into it. “He’s sweet,” Joe murmurs.

You snort. “Don’t get fooled. He’s evil too. Spawn of Satan, actually.” A beat. “But I love him,” you add quickly.

Ponkan lifts his head just enough to look at you, judgmental.

Joe huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I think he heard that.”

“He always does.”

After a while, you push yourself off the counter.

“I’ll give some of the less sweet ones to Mr. 6D,” you say, already reaching for a container. “He can’t have too much sugar.”

Joe nods, watching you move around the kitchen like it’s second nature like care is something that just exists in everything you do.

“The old man with the cane?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you then—quiet, thoughtful, like he’s noticing something he didn’t expect to.

“Be right back,” you say, slipping on your sandals. The door closes softly behind you.

The apartment shifts without you in it. Not empty. Just… missing something.

Joe finishes his drink slowly, setting the glass down before standing. His eyes wander not out of nosiness, but curiosity. Like he’s trying to understand you through the things you leave behind.

He drifts toward the living room.

Photos line the shelves—small, slightly mismatched frames that feel more collected than decorated.

He picks one up. You, younger. Laughing. Ice cream melting between your fingers, a gap in your smile that makes the whole picture feel brighter, lighter.

Joe smiles without meaning to.

Another frame. You and your grandmother. The kind of closeness that doesn’t need explaining.

He lingers there a second longer than he expects. Then a kitten. Tiny, awkward, cradled in your hands. He glances over his shoulder at Ponkan, now fully grown and acting like he owns the place.

“yeah,” Joe murmurs. “That tracks.”

The turntable catches his attention next. He flips through the records carefully, almost reverently.

Frank Sinatra

Miles Davis

Arctic Monkeys

Then his fingers stop. The Crux

He stares at it. “…no way.”

A soft, disbelieving laugh slips out of him, something in his chest doing a small, unexpected flip. He doesn’t say anything else. Just… looks at it for a moment longer than necessary.

The bookshelf is filled with poetry. Joe tilts his head, amused. “You’ve got an old lady soul trapped in there,” he murmurs to himself.

Then, the corkboard. He steps closer and there they are. The notes he sticks on your door from those times the two of you never catch each other.

His notes.

Every single one, pinned carefully like they mean something. The mountain photo he left sits right in the center.

Joe reaches out, fingertips brushing the edge before lifting it slightly. “didn’t know you kept these,” he says quietly.

Behind him a mug wobbles, he turns.

Ponkan.

“Hey no, no, no—don’t!” Joe moves quickly, scooping the cat up just before it tips but the sudden movement startles him.

A quick sharp swipe. “Shit”

The door opens and you step inside and everything in you drops at once when you see him. Joe’s holding his arm, a thin red line already forming across his skin.

“Oh my god what happened?” you rush forward, the words tumbling out too fast.

Then you see it. “Oh shit. Okay wait—hold on” You’re already moving, grabbing the first aid kit, your hands just slightly unsteady.

“Sit,” you say, guiding him to the couch without waiting for permission and he does.

Because the way you’re looking at him like it matters, makes it hard not to.

You kneel in front of him, closer than before, carefully cleaning the scratch. “I’m so sorry,” you say, softer now but still laced with worry. “He gets like that when he’s startled. But he’s vaccinated, he’s fine, I just—do you need a hospital? We can go—”

“Hey,” Joe says gently. You stop.

“It’s okay,” he adds, smiling a little. “It’s not deep.”

You shake your head. “Still…”

“I scared him,” Joe shrugs lightly. “That’s on me.”

There’s a pause.

“Hey.” His hand lifts, slower this time. He tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your skin in a way that feels softer than it should.

“It’s really okay.”

You look at him really look and something settles. Because it feels… normal, him sitting in your living room, you taking care of him—belongs.

You finish cleaning the scratch and reach for a bandage. A small pink one.

Hello Kitty.

You press it gently against his skin. Joe looks down. Then back at you.

“…it’s cute.”

You laugh, a little shy. “I don’t have anything else.”

“I like it,” he says. “It gives me personality.”

You shake your head, smiling. Ponkan jumps back onto the couch like nothing happened.

Joe eyes him. “We’re gonna have a talk later,” he mutters.

“Well,” you say, glancing at the clock, then back at him with a small, knowing smile, “it’s been an hour.”

You rest your hands on the counter, tilting your head slightly. “Time for the last dessert.”

Joe straightens immediately as if you just said something life-changing.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he says, placing a hand over his chest as if this is a formal event. “Emotionally preparing.”

You laugh, already moving toward the fridge. “Please relax.”

“I can’t,” he says, sliding off the counter and following you anyway. “There’s too much at stake.”

You pull the dish out carefully. Cold glass. Golden caramel clinging to the edges.

“Okay,” you murmur, more to yourself now, placing a plate on the counter. “Let’s see if this works.”

Joe’s already pulling out his phone. “Wait, wait—hold on,” he says, stepping closer. “This feels important.”

You glance at him. “You’re recording this?”

“Absolutely,” he nods. “This is history.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. 

Carefully, you flip the container. There’s a soft thud—then the slow, perfect release. The leche flan slides out smoothly, glossy and golden, caramel syrup spilling down the sides like melted sunlight.

Joe audibly gasps. “Oh my—”

He zooms in with his phone. “Look at that. That’s insane. That’s—”

“You’re overreacting,” you cut in, laughing as you slice into it.

“I’m underreacting,” he corrects, dead serious.

You place a slice on a plate and hand it to him. He takes it like it’s something sacred.

You both take a bite. The texture is soft—almost silk, melting instantly, the sweetness rich but balanced, the caramel just slightly bitter at the edges.

Joe closes his eyes. “Okay.”

You laugh quietly. “You always say that.”

“Because I keep being right,” he replies, opening his eyes again. “This is this might be illegal too, by the way.”

You lean your elbows on the counter, watching him more than the dessert. “So,” you ask, softer now, “what’s your favorite?”

Joe pauses mid-bite, thinking like it actually matters. “Okay,” he says slowly, pointing his fork at you. “First of all, this is an honor. I need that on record.”

You snort. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” he insists. “But if I had to choose…”  He leans back slightly, dramatic. “The brioche. With the hot chocolate. That combo? Life-changing.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And correct,” he adds.

The rest of the afternoon slips by like sugar dissolving in warm coffee—slow, easy, impossible to separate from the moment itself.

You sit closer now, not quite touching but close enough that it feels intentional.

You talk about everything and nothing, childhood stories, bad habits, favorite songs, things that don’t matter until they suddenly do.

Joe laughs more than usual.

By the time the plates are empty, the light outside has softened into something golden and quiet.

Sunday settles around you like a memory already forming. And somehow it feels like the sweetest one yet.

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

A week passes and something shifts. Not all at once but in small, quiet ways. You see each other more. Elevator rides that last a little longer than necessary. Hallway conversations that turn into minutes. Minutes that turn into something you don’t quite name.

Sometimes it’s the stairs. Sometimes it’s just knocking on each other’s doors without texting first.

The old man from 6D watches all of it with knowing eyes, occasionally muttering that the two of you remind him of something he used to have.

Neither of you asks what he means.

Sunday comes again and this time your café is different.

A small chalkboard sits near the entrance, written in soft pink and blue:

Joe’s Favorites soft, creamy, buttery, cheesy brioche & tablea hot chocolate

And beneath it,

new additions:

Honey Lavender Latte Cookies Iced Milky Salted Caramel Leche Flan

Joe steps inside, the bell above the door chiming softly. The place smells like everything he’s come to associate with you—coffee, sugar, something warm and alive.

He’s not alone, a few friends trail behind him, glancing around with curiosity.

“This is it?” one of them asks.

Joe just smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “This is it.”

Behind the counter, your coworker calls your name. “Someone is asking for you.” You wipe your hands on your apron, stepping out, a little confused. Then you see him.

Joe.

Standing there like he belongs. Smiling like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Surprise.”

You cross your arms, trying to hide your smile. “I’m not surprised,” you say. “I know you love my baking.”

He laughs. “Okay wow. Confident now.”

“Not wrong though.”

“Not wrong,” he admits, glancing back at his friends. “I brought people.”

You follow his gaze. “They better like it,” you say lightly.

“They will,” Joe replies without hesitation. Then he looks back at you.

“So… what’s my order?” You already know but you ask anyway.

He smiles. “My favorite.”

You step back behind the counter, pretending to focus on work but really, you’re watching.

His friends take their first bites.  “Damn.”

One of them leans back like he’s been hit with something unexpected.

Another wipes imaginary tears. “I feel something.”

“I could write a song about this,” someone else says.

Joe just sits there, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Told you, his expression says.

He takes a bite of the brioche. Dips it into the hot chocolate.

Same as before but it feels different now. Because now he knows you.

The sweetness hits first, the bitterness of the chocolate, grounding it, balancing it. Like something that shouldn’t work but does.

Perfectly.

Joe exhales quietly and it hits him. Not all at once but enough. It’s not just the food. It was never just the food. It’s the way your place feels like home before he even steps inside. The way your laugh lingers longer than any song he’s written.

The way everything you make, every drink, every dessert carries a piece of you in it. Like love, if he had to give it a taste.

Joe takes another bite, slower this time. And somewhere between the sugar and the warmth, between the softness and the quiet he realizes he’s not just fallen for the sweetness.

He’s fallen for the one who made it; somehow, that feels even sweeter.

part 3

pairing: joe keery x reader

summary: joe thinks his new neighbor is a grandma

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 special chapter (japan trip) first anniversary part 7

more...

𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠

joe gets jealous when your customer tries to flirt with you

joe loves seeing you and his band getting along

you get distracted while joe teaching you chords

you teach joe how to bake and it humbles him

you get a pregnancy scare and joe keeps reassuring you

joe sleeps in your My-Melody themed bedroom

joe thought you were just having a bad day...

joe teases you about his album he found on your vinyl records

girl next door backstory

how i imagine joe and girl next door when drunk

you packed joe lunches and he shows it off to his bandmates

joe plays and sings " remember me " for you to help you sleep

more...

𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔

do they have an age gap?

how long gnd and joe dating?

am i gonna write smut about them?

how long am i writing the series?

𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

regular customers: @bdllvr @sensiblyfreshtroll @roseosstuff @maferin @valentine-night @batmanssssss @eller41 @dramallama9 @psicodelica-me @fionaisinlove @helaenabugmom @harringt0nangel @yerxm @songkangslvr @bluehexagon8 @offbrandhandymanny @eli0eli0 @storietilman @wtfaidhblog @dopeysunflowers @joekeerysbicep @b1uegemz @keery-poynter @nakano-nanami @missnxthingg @jajabsvsjsja @projections-mortal @simsimstay2017 @purplerainx1 @msdankworthpotter @twilight-sparkle67 @redvelvetcupcke1 @princessofthefrogss @greggspinksprinkledonut @incrediblycosmicscythe @needylittlebabyintherain @thisisourforest @s3xytosomeone @oohlillie @tsuubakill @velvetciders @aquariusmermaid2626 @needylittlebabyintherain @thisisourforest @s3xytosomeone @oohlillie @tsuubakill @willyoucry13 @ladybuugg @litlmisss @unclejeezysblog @leisilver @brrrainst3w @cliffuckingdovahkiin @whoxoxovi @miahslt91 @fortnitebuckleynerd @aniicorn @i-got-the-cinema @lizzyygrace @kissedbyabee-30 @4v3rybl0zz0m @bambi-lia please let me know if you wanna get tag xoxo

With Joe's schedule getting tighter lately, your guitar lessons have turned into something flexible—moved around between rehearsals, interviews, late-night studio sessions, and sudden flights.

Every time he apologizes for rescheduling, he looks genuinely guilty about it. And every time, you just smile and tell him it’s okay. Because it is.

You understand. At least, that’s what you keep telling him, it doesn’t really matter anyway. 

Not when the two of you somehow keep finding your way back to each other.

Sometimes it’s quick elevator conversations that stretch longer than intended. Sometimes it’s coffee at midnight in your apartment while Ella Fitzgerald hums softly in the background. Sometimes it’s him sprawled across your couch with Ponkan asleep on his chest while you test recipes beside him.

And sometimes, it’s this. Joe sitting on your kitchen counter again, long legs dangling slightly as he eats the pasta you made him like he hasn’t had a proper meal in days.

Your apartment smells like garlic, butter, and something warm simmering on the stove. Outside, the city glows quietly beyond the windows, but inside everything feels softer somehow.

Joe twirls the pasta around his fork before looking at you again. “Are you really sure you don’t want anything?” he asks for what feels like the fifth time tonight.

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you take another bite from your own plate. “Yes, Joe,” you say, amused. “Please stop worrying about me and go have fun in Japan.”

He watches you carefully for a second, like he’s trying to make sure you mean it. Because underneath the excitement sitting in his chest—the tour, the music, the movement—there’s still reluctance there too.

The kind that tastes bittersweet.

“Still,” he mutters, quieter now. “Feels weird leaving.”

Something in your chest softens at that. You smile anyway. “You’ll be back before you know it.”

Joe exhales through a small laugh, setting his fork down briefly. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess I will.”

That was last night.

The memory still lingers warm in your chest—the smell of pasta sauce, the sound of his laugh, the way he hugged you goodbye at the door a little longer than usual before heading downstairs to meet his bandmates.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Being away from you is strange, not painful exactly. Just… strange in the way missing a song halfway through feels strange. Like something familiar keeps trying to play in the background of his day, but the ending never comes.

So Joe texts you constantly. Not in an overwhelming way. Just little things, small pieces of his day he keeps wanting to hand to you first.

Photos arrive in your messages at random hours. A blurry picture of neon lights outside his hotel window. A convenience store snack he swears “changed his life.” His bandmates making faces in the background during dinner. A tiny kid at a fan signing holding one of his records upside down while grinning proudly.

And always, there’s a message attached.

joe: you would LOVE this place joe: their matcha is insane joe: like actually life changing

You smile to yourself before replying.

you: japan’s matcha is the best you: enjoy it for me too you: and be safe pls

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Disappear.

Appear again.

joe: yes chef 🫡

You send things too. Ponkan asleep belly-up in increasingly ridiculous positions. Fresh pastries cooling by the window. Rain against your café glass during closing time. A blurry picture of the espresso machine because “she survived another morning rush.”

Joe saves almost every single one. Especially the ones with you accidentally reflected in the glass somewhere.

One night, you send a picture of a failed pastry attempt, cream spilling sideways off the plate.

you: tragedy struck today

Joe laughs quietly to himself in his hotel room before replying.

joe: still looks better than anything ive ever made joe: ahh i miss you joe:... joe: i mean NEW YORKjoe: obviously

You stare at the message for a second longer than necessary before laughing softly to yourself.

you: mhm sure joe

On the other side of the world, Joe buries his face into his hotel pillow.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

A few days later, after a long fan signing event and an interview that drained almost all remaining energy from him, Joe finally has a quiet evening to himself.

Which should feel relaxing. Instead, he keeps seeing things that remind him of you. A café with floral curtains. A ceramic mug shaped like a cat. A bakery window glowing warm against the cold evening air.

It’s ridiculous. Honestly ridiculous but suddenly all he wants is to bring pieces of this place back for you. So he calls his sisters. The second the FaceTime connects, chaos erupts.

“Joe! How’s Japan?”

“Are you having fun?”

“Can you bring me snacks?”

“Wait, how’s the grandma?”

Joe bursts out laughing so suddenly he nearly drops his phone.

“Okay okay, hold on—”

His sisters keep talking over each other anyway.

“Did she bake you more cookies?”

“Are you surviving without your old lady pastries?”

“Joe probably misses her more than us.”

“He’s not coming home to us.”

“She’s NOT a grandma,” Joe finally says, still laughing. Silence, then…

“WHAT?”

All of them stare at him like he personally committed betrayal.

“You told us she was eighty or seventy!”

“I never said eighty!”

“You implied eighty, Joseph!”

Joe shakes his head, grinning helplessly. “Okay, fine. I was wrong.”

“Oh my god,” one sister gasps dramatically. “Tell us everything immediately.”

Joe leans back against the hotel bed, rubbing a hand over his face and somehow, once he starts talking he can’t really stop.

“She just…” he pauses, smiling a little to himself already. “She likes baking and jazz and vinyls. So I thought—”

“You profiled her as elderly,” one sister interrupts.

“Yes,” Joe sighs. “And I regret it deeply.”

His sisters laugh loudly. “But then I met her and—” He stops not because he doesn’t know what to say. But because suddenly there’s too much. Too many little things.

“She owns this tiny café,” he says eventually, softer now. “Like, really small. Kinda hidden too. But it smells like coffee and sugar all the time.”

His sisters go quiet, listening now. “And she makes everything herself,” Joe continues. “Pastries, drinks, all of it. And you can tell.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Joe says, trying to explain something that feels impossible to explain. “Everything she makes tastes… cared for.”

That earns immediate groans. “Oh, he’s gone.”

“No seriously,” Joe insists, laughing. “Like—you know when someone puts extra effort into tiny things because they genuinely want people to feel happy?”

His sisters exchange looks.

Joe keeps going anyway. “She talks about recipes like they’re stories,” he says. “And her eyes do this thing when she gets excited—” he stops abruptly.

“…what thing?” one sister asks slowly.

Joe blinks. “…nothing.”

“JOE.”

He groans, covering his face with one hand. “She just gets really happy, okay?” His sisters are smiling now. Big, knowing smiles. “And she has this orange cat,” Joe continues quickly, trying to redirect. “Ponkan. Evil little guy.”

“Not important,” one sister says immediately. “Continue talking about your wife.”

“She’s not my wife!”

“Yet,” another adds.

Joe laughs despite himself, shaking his head but then his expression softens again. “There’s just something about her apartment,” he admits quietly. “It’s… calm there.”

The room grows quieter after that.

Joe looks down briefly before continuing. “Like no matter how shitty the day was, I go there and suddenly everything slows down.”

His sisters don’t tease him this time because they hear it now too. The softness in his voice. The way he says your name without even realizing it.

Finally, one of them sighs dramatically. “Joe Keery,” she says. “You are so in love.”

Joe immediately sits up straighter. “No, I’m not.”

All sisters stare at him.

“Oh please.”

“That’s insane.”

“You literally sound like you’re describing a romance movie.”

“Are you watching romcoms now?”

Joe opens his mouth and closes it. “…is it obvious?”

“To us?” one sister says. “Painfully.”

“To her?” another adds. “Honestly? Hard to tell.”

Joe groans, falling backward onto the bed. “This is terrible.”

“No,” his sister laughs. “This is adorable.”

A beat passes then Joe sits up again suddenly. “Wait, actually, can you help me buy her something?”

All sisters immediately burst into laughter.

“There it is.”

“Oh my god.”

“He wants to buy her gifts already.”

“Don’t save him, he’s right where he wants to be.”

Joe points accusingly at the screen. “Can you focus?”

“Okay, okay,” one sister says, still grinning. “What does she like?”

Joe thinks for a second then his face brightens. “Oh.”

His sisters immediately notice. “Oh no,” one mutters. “That look again.”

“She collects Sanrio mugs,” Joe says. “She has this My Melody one she really likes.”

“Aww.”

“That’s actually so cute.”

“You need to buy her one.”

Joe nods immediately, already mentally committed. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I will.”

And the smile on his face afterward, a small, helpless, impossibly fond looks an awful lot like love.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Tokyo feels alive in a way Joe can’t fully explain.

Everything glows.

Neon signs stacked on top of each other, train stations humming endlessly with movement, tiny cafés tucked between buildings like secrets waiting to be found. The city feels fast and bright and restless—but somehow soft at the same time.

Joe likes it immediately. Especially because every few minutes, he catches himself thinking: You would love this.

Which is exactly how he ends up stopping in the middle of the sidewalk that afternoon. One of his friends nearly walks into him. “Dude—what?”

But Joe isn’t listening anymore because through the glass storefront in front of him, he spots something painfully familiar. A tiny pink character smiling back at him from a shelf. Then another and another.

Joe squints slightly. “…no way.”

His friend follows his line of sight. “Oh no,” he says immediately. “You’re thinking about her again.”

Joe ignores him completely and pushes the door open.

The store smells faintly like paper and vanilla-scented air freshener. Bright plushies and pastel shelves crowd every corner, soft music playing quietly overhead.

And there right in the center is the exact character printed on your mug. The same one on your bandaids.

The same one you once spent five full minutes explaining the lore of while Joe tried—and failed not to laugh.

“My Melody,” you had said seriously, holding your mug carefully. “She’s sweeter than Hello Kitty.”

Joe had stared at you. “You know lore?”

“She’s not just a character, Joe.” And honestly? The way you looked offended about it was one of the cutest things he’d ever seen.

Now, standing in the middle of a Japanese gift shop thousands of miles away from you, Joe suddenly finds himself grinning like an idiot.

“Oh, he’s smiling,” one of his friends teases quietly. “That’s bad.”

“Shut up.”

Joe picks up one mug. Then another okay maybe six. a small spoon set then matching plates. Then somehow an entire collection.

“You are absolutely in love,” his friend mutters.

“I’m literally just buying gifts.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

An older Japanese man accompanying their group notices the growing pile in Joe’s arms and laughs softly. He says something to the sales lady first before turning toward Joe with amused eyes.

“For your niece?” the man asks kindly.

Joe looks down at the mugs. At the tiny pink bows. At the little details he knows would make you smile instantly. And without even thinking about it he smiles, a small fond smile.

“No,” he says softly. “For someone.”

The older man studies his expression for a second. Then his smile widens knowingly. “Ah,” he says. “Must be very special then.”

Joe should deny it or should laugh it off. Instead, he looks back at the shelf for a moment, already imagining your reaction.

The way your eyes will light up. The way you’ll hold the mug carefully like it’s something precious. The way your whole face softens whenever someone remembers small things about you.

And suddenly missing you feels a little too big for his chest.

“Yeah,” Joe admits quietly. “She really is.”

The rest of the day passes in soft little moments. Joe walks through crowded streets with shopping bags hanging from both arms, stopping every now and then whenever something reminds him of someone he loves.

Snacks for his sisters.

Keychains.

Tiny souvenirs.

But somehow he keeps finding more things for you too.

A cat-shaped spoon rest because it looks like Ponkan.

A notebook with tiny strawberries on the cover because it feels like something you’d leave recipe ideas in.

Packets of matcha he insists are “life-changing.”

His friends stop questioning it after a while. Mostly because every time Joe talks about you now, he gets this look on his face. his heart already lives somewhere else.

By evening, he’s sitting at a tiny café tucked away from the noise of the city, a warm matcha latte between his hands. Rain taps softly against the windows. The café smells like milk bread and sugar and before he can stop himself, Joe reaches for his phone.

Snaps a picture.

Then another. The lighting is pretty, he tells himself.

That’s all.

But even he doesn’t believe that anymore.

joe: okay you were right joe: japan matcha wins joe: i fear youve ruined american matcha for me forever

A reply comes a minute later.

you: finally. character development

Joe laughs softly into his drink.Then another message appears.

you: did you have fun today?

and God something about that question. Like you genuinely care about the answer. Joe leans back in his chair, smiling helplessly to himself before typing back.

joe: yeah joe: but i kept seeing things that reminded me of you

He stares at the message for two whole seconds after sending it.

“…oh my god,” he whispers immediately.

His friend across the table looks up.

“What did you do?”

Joe drops his face into his hands. “I might actually be in love with her.”

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Meanwhile, oceans away your apartment feels quieter than usual. You catch yourself glancing toward Joe Keery’s apartment door more often now.

Small unconscious things.

Looking up every time footsteps echo down the hallway.

Pausing whenever the elevator dings. Half-expecting his voice to drift through the walls at any second.

“Hey,” warm and easy, like he’s been there all along.

But the hallway stays still. And somehow, that makes his absence feel louder.

You miss the little things most. The soft sound of his guitar bleeding faintly through the walls late at night because he thinks no one can hear him. The way he hums absentmindedly while unlocking his apartment door.

The random knocks at your door followed by:

“I bought too much takeout again.”

As if either of you believe that anymore.

Tonight, your turntable spins softly in the corner of your apartment, but halfway through the song, you pause it. The sudden silence settles around the room.

Then very faintly through memory more than sound you remember Joe’s guitar.

The low strumming. The unfinished melodies. The way his music always sounded softer through the walls somehow. hearing someone think out loud and against your will your chest aches a little.

“Earth to you, young lady.” The voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

You blink, looking up. Mr. 6D sits across from you at the small chess table near his apartment door, watching you with deeply amused eyes.

Your brows lift slightly. “…sorry.”

“You’ve been staring at the same chess piece for two minutes,” he says.

You glance down. “Oh,” you mumble, quickly moving your knight. “There.”

The old man looks at the board. Then at you. Then bursts into laughter.

“You just sacrificed your bishop.”

You stare. “…that’s a pawn.”

“Exactly my point.”

You drop your face into your hands immediately. “Oh my god.”

The old man laughs harder, shaking his head fondly. “You miss him.”

Your head shoots up instantly. “What? No, I don’t.”

The old man gives you a look. The kind older people give when they already know the truth before you do.

“Young lady,” he says calmly, “you have spent the last ten minutes looking at Joe’s apartment door like it stole your flour.”

You gasp softly. “I have not.”

“You also just tried to move your pawn diagonally.”

You groan. “I’m pathetic.”

“No,” he says warmly. “You’re in love.”

You nearly choke. “I am NOT.”

“Hm.”

The sound alone is enough to make you defensive. “You are literally making things up.”

The old man simply moves his queen across the board. “Then call him.”

You blink. “What?”

“Call him,” he repeats. “Stop looking at the poor boy’s door like a sad Victorian widow.”

That pulls a laugh out of you despite yourself. “He’s probably busy.”

“Maybe,” the old man shrugs. “But I doubt he’d mind hearing your voice.”

And somehow that thought alone makes your stomach flutter.

You hesitate for another full minute before finally reaching for your phone. Mr. 6D watches with entirely too much satisfaction.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter.

“Young love is beautiful.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re stalling.”

You glare at him once before pressing call. The line rings.

Then suddenly the screen lights up and there he is. Joe appears slightly breathless, hair messy which made you think he just woke up. The second he sees you his entire face softens. Like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“Hey,” he says immediately, smiling so quickly it feels instinctive.

 God. You didn’t realize how much you missed that smile until now.

Your own appears before you can stop it. “Hey, Joe.”

For a second neither of you says anything. Just smiling at each other like idiots. Then both of you speak at once.

“How are—”

“Sorry, did I—”

You stop and laughs. Joe laughs too, shaking his head.

“You go first.”

“No, you—”

“You called me,” he points out.

“Right.”

Your smile grows a little sheepish. “Uh… I hope you’re not busy.”

Joe answers so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “Nope.”

You blink.

He clears his throat, trying again slightly calmer. “I mean—no. I’m free today.”

In the background, one of his bandmates yells something unintelligible. Joe immediately leans away from the phone.

“Shut up!”

You laugh softly. And just hearing that sound through his phone speaker makes something in Joe’s chest melt completely.

“What about you?” he asks, settling more comfortably against the pillows now. “How’s New York?”

You glance around your apartment instinctively. “Quiet.”

The word slips out before you can stop it. Joe pauses. Something softer enters his expression immediately. “…yeah,” he says quietly. “Japan’s loud.”

You smile faintly. “I baked today.”

“Oh?” Joe perks up instantly. “What kind?”

And just like that the conversation flows easily again, warm and comfortable.  Like slipping back into your favorite sweater after being out in the cold too long.

Meanwhile, across the kitchen, Mr. 6D quietly celebrates his matchmaking victory alone with tea.

Joe texts you the second his plane lands. Then again while sitting in traffic. Then once more when he finally gets back into Manhattan.

joe: alive joe: jetlagged joe: craving your pasta already

A few minutes later—

joe: hello??? joe: did ponkan eat you

Then—

joe: beginning to take this personally now

But no reply ever comes. Which is unusual Because even when you’re busy, you always send something.

A thumbs up.

A blurry picture.

A “sorry working!!”

Something.

What Joe doesn’t know is that one of your staff had an emergency earlier that morning, leaving you alone to handle the café during one of the busiest days of the week.

And now hours later you’re exhausted.

The city outside has already dissolved into nighttime by the time you start wiping down the counters.

Your apron is dusted lightly with flour. Your feet ache. The espresso machine finally sits silent after screaming all day. And the café smells faintly of sugar and coffee grounds and tiredness.

You sigh softly, stacking cups together while the old jazz playlist hums quietly overhead. The CLOSED sign already hangs in the window.

So when the bell above the door jingles you don’t even look up.

“We’re closed now, sorry,” you mumble automatically, still focused on cleaning the counter.

A familiar voice answers almost immediately. “Welcome back to you too.”

You freeze.

Your head snaps up so fast you nearly drop the towel in your hands. Joe stands near the doorway, hands full of paper bags, travel jacket still on, hair messy from the flight.

And he’s smiling.

He’s smiling at you.

You don’t even think. Your body moves before your brain catches up. You rush around the counter and straight into him. Joe barely has enough time to laugh before you’re colliding into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around him. 

The paper bags crinkle loudly between you. But Joe hugs you back instantly anyway. One arm around your waist. The other still awkwardly holding shopping bags.

And somehow despite the noise of the city outside, despite the exhaustion weighing on both of you everything suddenly feels quiet.

Joe exhales softly against your hair and wow. He missed this.

Missed you. More than he probably should.

“Well,” he says after a second, voice teasingly light, “seems like someone missed me.”

You pull back just enough to glare at him weakly. “Shut up.”

Joe grins immediately. “There she is.”

Only then you really look at him. The jetlag tired eyes. The softness in his expression the second he saw you. And something in your chest melts completely.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur.

“You look worse,” Joe replies honestly.

You gasp dramatically. “That’s incredibly rude.”

“You still hugged me though.”

“…unfortunately.”

Joe laughs quietly, warm and familiar. God, you missed that sound too.

“Oh—wait,” Joe says suddenly, shifting the paper bags carefully. “I brought you something.”

You blink. “Joe…”

“No, no. Hold on.”

He starts digging through the bags with surprising seriousness until finally pulling out a carefully wrapped box. The second you see the pink designs peeking through the packaging your eyes widen.

“No.”

Joe’s smile grows instantly. “Oh yes.”

You grab the box carefully and peel the wrapping back and immediately you gasp.

“Joe.”

Inside sits an entire Sanrio ceramic mug collection. Not just random pieces either. The specific set you once mentioned wanting but couldn’t find anymore.

Your mouth falls open. “You fucking did not.”

Joe starts laughing immediately at your expression.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, lifting one of the mugs carefully like it’s made of glass and dreams. “Joe, where did you even find these?”

“In Japan?”

You look up deadpan. “I know that.”

“I suffered for these,” he says dramatically. “You’re welcome.”

You stare at the mugs again. Then at him. Then back at the mugs. And before Joe can prepare himself you throw your arms around him again. This time slower, tighter, and longer.

Joe stills slightly at the impact before relaxing completely into it, his chin brushing the top of your head. And quietly almost without thinking he says: “Anything for you.”

The words settle softly between you.

Dangerously easy.

You pull back first this time, cheeks warmer than before. Neither of you mentions it.

Joe spends the next several minutes unpacking more gifts onto the counter while you react dramatically to every single one.

Matcha packets.

Tiny keychains.

Cat toys for Ponkan.

A strawberry notebook.

A little ceramic spoon rest shaped suspiciously like your cat.

“You bought him gifts too?” you laugh.

Joe shrugs. “He’s my son now too.”

“Absolutely not.”

“He likes me more than you.”

“That is biologically impossible.”

When you finally close the café for real, Joe helps without even asking. He wipes tables while humming softly under his breath.

Stacks chairs. Dries dishes beside you. And somehow the entire thing feels strangely domestic. Like this is something the two of you have always done. Like he belongs there beside you.

At one point, you glance over and catch him rolling up his sleeves while washing coffee cups.

And for some reason that nearly kills you. Because there’s something unbearably tender about seeing someone you’ve watched on screens for years standing in your tiny café kitchen asking:

“Where do you keep the good towels?”

By the time everything is finally clean, the city outside has gone quieter. The streets glow gold beneath streetlights. The air feels cooler now. And neither of you seems in any hurry to separate again.

So you walk home together. Side by side. Shoulders occasionally bumping. Paper bags swinging gently between your hands.

Joe keeps talking about Japan while you listen, smiling softly at the sound of his voice again. And somewhere between one streetlight and the next he glances at you.

Really glances at you he notice your tired eyes. your sleepy smile. The way you hold the Sanrio bag carefully against your chest.

Like it means something.

Like he means something.

And suddenly, Joe feels it again. That awful, wonderful sweetness blooming inside his chest. Warm as melted sugar. Soft as fresh bread pulled from the oven. The kind that lingers on your tongue long after the last bite.

He’s so completely gone for you and judging by the way you keep smiling to yourself while walking beside him—maybe, just maybe, you’re falling too.