Elvira

The rain had started again, a steady drizzle that soaked through their jackets and muffled the crunch of gravel under their bikes. Their flashlights cut pale beams through the fog as they pedaled out past the edge of town.

“According to my map,” Mike said, squinting against the wind, “if we keep going down Mirkwood—uh, I mean Cornwallis Street—there’s a shortcut to the quarry. That’s where Hopper’s guys said they were searching today.”

Lucas rolled his eyes. “You think they’d tell us if they actually found something?”

Dustin pushed his glasses up. “Exactly! That’s why we’re checking it out. They don’t know what they’re looking for. We do.”

The woods pressed close on both sides, the trees black silhouettes against the fog. Every few minutes, one of them would glance over a shoulder, the memory of the “shadow” still fresh in their minds.

They stopped when the road curved. A faint humming drifted through the air — not like an engine or a generator, but deeper, stranger. Almost like... breathing.

“Do you guys hear that?” Mike whispered.

They killed their bike lights and listened. The sound pulsed, rhythmic and alive, coming from the trees.

Lucas swallowed hard. “That’s not Will.”

Dustin nodded slowly. “No. But it might be what took him.”

They left the bikes in the ditch and crept toward the noise, flashlights shaking in their hands. The forest floor was slick with mud, every step louder than they wanted it to be.

Then they saw it.

A patch of ground where the leaves weren’t wet anymore — they were burned. The trees around it bent inward, blackened like they’d been pulled toward something that wasn’t there anymore. In the center of the clearing was a dark, glistening patch on the ground, like oil but... moving.

“What the heck is that?” Lucas breathed.

Dustin crouched down, eyes wide. “It’s... it’s like it’s alive.”

The “oil” rippled, a faint shimmer of light flickering across its surface. Then — a sound. A whisper. Faint, almost like a voice coming through a broken radio.

Help me.

Mike’s stomach dropped. “That sounded like—”

“Will,” Dustin finished, his voice shaking.

They stumbled backward as the black liquid began to stretch toward them, reaching in slow, twitching tendrils.

“Run!” Mike shouted.

They bolted, crashing through the trees, their flashlights bouncing wildly as thunder cracked overhead.

None of them looked back — but if they had, they might have seen the thing in the clearing rise, shape shifting in the dark, watching them go.

By the time the boys reached town, they were drenched, muddy, and out of breath. They dropped their bikes on the Byers’ lawn, rainwater dripping from their hair and sleeves. Joyce opened the door before they even knocked.

“Boys?” she said, frowning. “What on earth—look at you! You’re soaked!”

Mike doubled over, panting. “We—we found something,” he gasped. “In the woods.”

Joyce’s heart skipped. “You found Will?”

“Not exactly,” Dustin said quickly. “But we heard him. We heard his voice, Mrs. Byers! It came from— from this thing!”

Joyce blinked, confused. “What thing?”

Lucas exchanged a nervous glance with Mike, then said, “It was like... black water. Except it moved. And it burned the ground around it.”

Joyce stared at them for a long second — eyes wide, mouth parting as though to say something, but before she could, there was a heavy knock on the door.

Chief Hopper stepped inside, rain dripping from his hat. “Alright, what’s going on here?” he asked, voice low but sharp. “Karen Wheeler said you kids took off again.”

“They found something,” Joyce said quickly. “Out by the quarry.”

Hopper sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Let me guess — more monsters and magic puddles?”

Mike stepped forward, trembling with frustration. “We’re serious! We heard Will, Chief. He said, ‘help me.’ It was real.”

Hopper looked at them — at their mud-caked sneakers, their shaking hands — and something in his expression softened, just a little.

“You’re saying you heard him,” he said carefully. “Not saw him.”

“Yeah,” Dustin said. “But you don’t get it — it was him. I swear it.”

Hopper crouched down to meet their eyes. “Okay. Then show me. Take me to where you found it.”

Lucas swallowed. “I don’t think it’s... there anymore.”

Joyce frowned. “What do you mean?”

Dustin looked down at his hands. “When we ran, it—moved. Like it was chasing us.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the rain against the roof.

Finally, Joyce said softly, “I believe them.”

Hopper looked at her — tired, skeptical — but the worry in her eyes was something he couldn’t ignore.

“Fine,” he said, standing. “Tomorrow morning, first light. We’ll go out there.” He turned to the boys. “And you three — you stay put tonight. No more running off into the woods. Got it?”

They all nodded, but Mike’s mind was already spinning. Because deep down, he knew one thing: Whatever they’d seen out there wasn’t done with them yet.

The storm had thinned into a steady drizzle by the time Hopper herded the boys into his truck. Mud streaked their shoes and jeans, the smell of wet leaves filling the cab. No one said a word.

Hopper gripped the steering wheel, his jaw tight. “You know,” he said finally, voice rumbling through the silence, “I’ve got half the town looking for your friend, and the other half calling me every hour ‘cause they think there’s a bear or a break-in or God knows what out there. And what do you three decide to do?”

No one answered.

“Go charging into the woods in the middle of a thunderstorm,” Hopper finished flatly. “Brilliant.”

Dustin winced. “We were just trying to help.”

“I get that,” Hopper said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror, “but help doesn’t mean getting yourselves killed.”

He pulled up first to the Wheelers’ house. The porch light was still on, and Karen Wheeler was waiting in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression switching between panic and fury.

Mike sank lower in his seat.

“Out,” Hopper said.

Mike climbed out, mumbling, “Thanks for the ride, Chief.”

Hopper got out too, walking him up the steps. Karen met them halfway.

“Michael Wheeler,” she said sharply, “do you have any idea what time it is?”

Mike stared at the floor. “Sorry, Mom.”

Karen turned to Hopper. “Was he—”

“Just kids being kids,” Hopper said gruffly. “They didn’t find anything. You can handle it from here.”

Karen nodded, still glaring at her son. As Hopper turned back toward the truck, Mike looked over his shoulder. “Chief?”

“Yeah?”

“What if it was Will?”

Hopper paused. “Then I’ll find him,” he said quietly. “But next time, you let me do the dangerous part.”

Mike nodded.

Next stop: Lucas’s house. The Sinclair porch light flicked on before they even pulled up. Lucas groaned. “Oh, no. My dad’s still awake.”

“Good,” Hopper said. “He should be.”

Lucas’s dad opened the door with his arms crossed, his expression unamused. “Boy, what did I tell you about sneakin’ out?”

“Don’t do it,” Lucas muttered.

“And what did you do?”

Lucas sighed. “Did it.”

“Exactly,” his father said. “Inside. Now.”

Lucas hesitated. “Sorry, Chief.”

“Get inside,” Hopper said, but his tone softened. “And kid—keep your head down next time.”

That left Dustin. The Henderson house was quiet, only one light glowing in the front window. When Hopper parked, Dustin turned to him. “You’re not mad, right?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” Hopper said. “But mostly tired. You’re lucky I’m not making you clean mud out of the truck bed.”

Dustin grinned weakly. “That’s fair.”

Hopper walked him up to the door. Mrs. Henderson opened it in her robe, her eyes wide with worry. “Dustin! Oh, thank God. I’ve been calling everyone in town—”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Dustin said quickly. “Promise.”

Hopper nodded toward her. “He’s safe. Just keep him out of the woods.”

As Hopper headed back to his truck, Dustin called after him. “Chief?”

“Yeah?”

“What if we were right?”

Hopper looked at him for a long second, then said, “Then I’ll deal with it. You just stay a kid a little longer, alright?”

Dustin nodded, watching him go.

When Hopper finally pulled away from the curb, the streets of Hawkins were quiet again. But the feeling in the air — that strange, humming tension — hadn’t gone anywhere.

Something was still out there.

He needed to check it out.

The rain had stopped, but fog clung low to the ground, curling around Hopper’s boots as he made his way down the narrow trail. His flashlight beam cut through the mist in short, shaky bursts.

He’d told himself it was just to “double-check.” To make sure the boys hadn’t stumbled into some old chemical dump or power line leak. But the truth was — something about the way they’d looked, the way Joyce had believed them — it had gotten under his skin.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were right.

The deeper he went, the quieter it became. No crickets. No wind. Even the hum of the power lines faded away. Just the sound of his boots sinking into wet earth.

When he finally reached the clearing, Hopper stopped dead in his tracks.

The trees were wrong. They leaned inward, like something had pulled at them. Just like the kids said.

He knelt down, shining his light over the ground — the soil was scorched black, damp but burned. A circle maybe ten feet wide. No tracks, no footprints.

He touched the edge of the soil with his hand — still warm.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

Then, the static started.

A faint crackle, barely there at first, like an old radio tuning in. Hopper straightened, scanning the trees. “Hello?”

Nothing.

He swung his flashlight toward the sound. The beam caught something — movement. A shimmer, almost invisible, like heat rising from pavement.

The air felt heavier. Charged.

He stepped forward cautiously, one hand on his holster. The static grew louder, twisting into what almost sounded like… words.

Help… me…

Hopper froze. His pulse thudded in his ears.

“Will?” he called.

The shimmer pulsed — then collapsed inward, vanishing with a deep, hollow pop that sucked the air from the clearing. The wind rushed back all at once, rattling the branches.

The forest was normal again.

Hopper stood there for a long time, breathing hard. Then he pulled out his radio. “Dispatch, this is Chief Hopper,” he said, voice low. “I need someone to run another sweep out near Cornwallis Street in the morning. Mark it down as… possible hazardous material.”

He hesitated. “...and keep it quiet. No press, no chatter.”

He turned off the radio and glanced back at the trees one last time before heading for his truck.

Behind him, in the clearing, the ground pulsed once — faintly — like something beneath the surface was breathing.

...

The house was too quiet.

Joyce sat on the couch, half-wrapped in a blanket, staring at the phone on the table like she could will it to ring. A cold cup of coffee sat untouched beside her. The clock on the wall ticked too loud.

Every few minutes, she’d get up, pace, sit back down. Then repeat. Anything to keep from thinking.

She told herself she believed the boys — about the sound, the voice — but believing didn’t make it make sense. It didn’t bring Will home.

Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the cracks in the windows. Joyce pulled the blanket tighter around herself. The light above her flickered once, then again.

She frowned and glanced up. “Not tonight,” she muttered. “Please.”

The bulb steadied.

Then, from down the hall, another light clicked on by itself — the one in Will’s room.

Joyce froze.

“…Will?” she called softly.

No answer.

She set down her coffee and stood, heart hammering. The floorboards creaked under her feet as she made her way to the door. Will’s room glowed faintly — that same soft yellow light he always kept on at night.

She stepped inside. The room was exactly how he’d left it: the posters on the wall, the messy desk, the stack of D&D books by the bed.

But the air felt… wrong. Thicker. Like the moment before a thunderstorm.

Then the radio on his desk — the one she thought was broken — crackled to life.

Static. And beneath it, something faint. A voice.

“Mom…”

Joyce’s breath caught. “Will?”

The static hissed louder, drowning everything out. She grabbed the radio, shaking it. “Will, honey, is that you?”

Then, faintly again: “Mom… help me…”

The lights flickered violently. One popped — sparks scattering. Joyce screamed and stumbled back. The sound from the radio turned sharp, shrieking like feedback — then cut off completely.

The room went black.

Joyce stood there in the dark, trembling, until another light blinked on in the hallway — just one.

Then another, down toward the living room.

And another, toward the front door.

One by one, the bulbs lit up — a trail of light leading through the house.

Joyce swallowed hard. “Will… is that you?”

The lights flickered twice — like a response.

Her throat tightened, tears welling. “Okay, baby,” she whispered. “I’m coming.”

She followed the lights slowly, her hand brushing the wall for balance. The air buzzed faintly with static — not loud, but constant, like the hum of power lines right overhead.

When she reached the end of the hall, the final bulb went out — and the phone rang.

Joyce jumped, clutching her chest. She hesitated, then lifted the receiver.

“...Hello?”

At first, only static. Then —

“Mom.”

Will’s voice. Clear. Desperate.

“Will!” she cried. “Where are you?”

Before he could answer, there was a sound — wet, heavy breathing on the line, like something else was there with him. Joyce’s eyes widened.

“Will?”

The line went dead.

The house plunged into silence.

Joyce stood in the dark, her hands shaking, her reflection faint in the window — until she saw it.

For a split second, behind her reflection, a shadow moved.

Joyce’s scream tore through the quiet Hawkins night.

Chief Hopper was halfway up the drive before he even realized he’d slammed his truck into park. His flashlight cut through the mist as he sprinted across the yard, shouting, “Joyce! Joyce, it’s Hopper! You in there?”

No answer. Just the faint hum of electricity, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

He kicked the door open. “Joyce!”

The living room was chaos — furniture knocked over, lights blown out, cords dangling like vines from the ceiling. The smell of smoke and ozone filled the air.

Hopper swept his light across the room, jaw tight. “Joyce!”

“I’m here!”

Her voice came from the hallway. Hopper turned — she was standing there, barefoot, hair wild, shaking, her face pale as paper.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, crossing to her.

She shook her head, eyes wide, frantic. “No—no, I’m fine, but he’s here, Jim. He’s here!”

Hopper frowned. “Who—Will?”

“Yes!” she cried, grabbing his sleeve. “I saw it—there’s something in the walls, in the floor—it’s trying to take him, but he’s alive!”

Hopper glanced past her into Will’s room. The floorboards near the bed were scorched, warped inward, as though something had pressed up from below. His flashlight beam flickered — not from the battery, but from the air itself, the same static hum he’d heard out in the woods.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Joyce clutched his arm tighter. “You see it, don’t you? I’m not crazy.”

He hesitated — just for a second. But the smell, the heat, the way the light bent at the center of the room… he couldn’t deny it.

He turned to her, voice steady but low. “No, Joyce. You’re not crazy.”

Her breath hitched. “You believe me?”

Hopper nodded once. “Yeah. I believe you.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The house creaked around them, the faint hum still pulsing under the floor.

Then Hopper straightened, scanning the warped boards again. “Whatever this is, we’re gonna find out what’s doing it. But we do it smart — together. No more running in here alone, you hear me?”

Joyce nodded weakly, tears in her eyes. “Together.”

Hopper took one last look at the floor. The boards were still — for now. But something deep beneath them was moving, faint and slow, like a heartbeat in the dark.

He tightened his jaw. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s bring your boy home.”

...

Eddie is in the next chapter guys I swear! Plus Y/n will be making her comeback publicly to hawkins soon.

Taglist: @mayhimouto513 @yearwalker96 @milfvibesonly @thefreakofhawkins86 @slyisbehindyou @littlestarfighter03

@ethen-often @luumunson @shinsouscatpisssmell @ahswhore0

@3rriberri @eddiesbunnie @mavex @cyberfaii @beebslebobs

@honey-flustered @yandere-nctsstuff @wh0reforeddie @caitlin333

@sxfemilf @choco-aj @mermemerald @tommyriddleobsessed

@sidefanficaccounttohidemyshame @frogers @sxfemilf @drawessa

Madeline tossed herself onto Miguel’s couch, scrolling through her phone with the intensity of someone about to change the world.

Miguel, halfway through reading a script, didn’t look up. “If this is another one of your internet obsessions—”

“It is,” she interrupted, grinning. “And you’re gonna thank me for it later.”

He sighed. “I highly doubt that.”

Madeline ignored him, spinning her phone around. “You have to watch this girl. Her name’s Y/n. She does commentary, vlogs, gaming — kind of a chaotic mix, but she’s hilarious.”

“I’m not watching YouTube,” he muttered. “That’s where brain cells go to die.”

Madeline rolled her eyes and hit play anyway.

The video started mid-rant. Y/n was sitting in her room, messy bun, sweatshirt, and the world’s most expressive eyes. “So apparently, if you don’t respond to texts within five minutes, you’re emotionally unavailable,” she said to the camera, waving a half-eaten cookie. “No, maybe I’m just in the shower or, I don’t know, living my life?”

Madeline laughed. “See? She’s you if you actually had a sense of humor.”

Miguel looked up — just to tell her off — but then… stopped. There was something about Y/n’s energy, her timing, her little smirk between jokes. He watched for a second. Then another. Before he knew it, the video ended and YouTube auto-played the next one.

Madeline smirked. “Ohhh, he’s intrigued.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly.

...

It was past midnight when Miguel finally gave in. The script he was supposed to be reading lay untouched on the coffee table, and the only light in his living room came from the soft glow of his phone.

He scrolled through Y/n’s channel — bright thumbnails, ridiculous titles like “Trying to be an adult (and failing miserably)” and “Dating red flags: a comprehensive guide I made out of spite.” He snorted. Charming.

He clicked on one almost at random: “Moving on is weird (but so is love).”

The video opened with Y/n sitting cross-legged on her bed, a mug in her hands and that same unfiltered energy humming under the surface — but this one was quieter. Gentler.

“Okay,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “So… this isn’t my usual kind of video. But I feel like no one talks about what happens after a breakup when you’re not sad anymore — just… different. Like you healed, but now you don’t recognize yourself.”

Miguel leaned back, phone resting in his hand. Something about her tone — that mix of humor and sincerity — made him still.

“You start to realize that maybe love doesn’t break you; it just… rearranges you. And then you have to figure out what to do with the new version of you that’s left behind.”

She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “Wow, that got deep fast. Anyway — moral of the story: it’s okay to outgrow what hurt you. You don’t owe your past self anything except gratitude for surviving.”

There was a long pause as she looked at the camera, smiling softly — like she was talking to him, not to a million strangers.

Miguel didn’t even notice his thumb hovering over the replay button until he pressed it. Once. Then again.

By the third time through, his chest felt heavy in a way he couldn’t explain.

He wasn’t supposed to care. She was just some girl online, sitting in a messy room, laughing at her own jokes. But there was something magnetic about her — the way she made vulnerability look like strength, the way she laughed mid-sentence, the way her eyes crinkled just before she smiled.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, muttering under his breath, “This is ridiculous.”

But then, when the video ended and the outro music faded, he clicked on another one. And another.

By 3 a.m., he’d gone through half her channel — her chaotic cooking attempts, her off-key car karaoke, her random late-night rambles about life and love.

When he finally put his phone down, his heart was doing this weird thing — light and heavy all at once. He tried to shake it off, but her voice lingered in his head like an echo he couldn’t stop hearing.

He found himself whispering, “Y/n,” just to see how it sounded out loud.

And that’s when it hit him.

He hadn’t just found her funny. He hadn’t just found her real. He’d fallen — quietly, accidentally, completely — for a girl he’d never even met.

The next morning, sunlight was already bleeding through the curtains when Miguel finally dragged himself out of bed. He’d slept maybe three hours, if that — his dreams a blur of laughter, soft smiles, and a voice that wasn’t really there.

He told himself it was fine. He was fine. He was definitely not thinking about a YouTuber he didn’t even know.

The universe, however, seemed determined to test his self-control — because as soon as he sat down with his coffee, his phone lit up with a notification: “Y/n just posted: ‘I tried baking again (send help)’.”

Miguel stared at the screen for a second. He shouldn’t click it. He really shouldn’t. He clicked it.

The video opened with Y/n holding a burnt cupcake like it was a war casualty.

“Okay, so apparently, following instructions matters, which is news to me,” she said, squinting at the camera. “On the bright side, at least the smoke detector’s still alive and kicking.”

Miguel snorted — an actual laugh, the kind he hadn’t had in a while.

That was exactly when Madeline walked in.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said, dropping her bag on the counter. “You look… suspiciously happy. What’s the occasion?”

He quickly locked his phone. “Nothing. Just reading emails.”

Madeline raised an eyebrow. “Emails make you smile like that?” She leaned over and snagged his phone before he could react. “Let’s see what kind of emails make you laugh at 9 a.m.—”

“Madeline,” he warned, reaching for it, but she was already looking at the screen.

Her grin turned wicked. “Oh my God. You’re watching her again.”

Miguel sighed. “It’s not—”

“Oh, please,” she interrupted, plopping into a chair. “You were roasting her yesterday! Said YouTubers were a ‘waste of bandwidth.’ Now you’re smiling like a lovesick idiot.”

“I’m not—”

“You so are. Look at you! You’ve got that face.”

“What face?”

“The I just found my soulmate on the internet face!” she said, cackling.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying not to smile — and failing miserably. “You’re insane.”

Madeline sipped her coffee, eyes glinting. “You’re the one watching baking fails on repeat, movie star.”

He didn’t respond. His gaze drifted toward his phone again, screen dark now, but her face still clear in his mind — that smile, that energy, that spark that made the world feel lighter.

Madeline noticed the look and softened just a bit. “You really like her, huh?”

Miguel hesitated. “I don’t even know her,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause: “But it feels like I do.”

Madeline’s teasing grin returned. “Well, good news. The internet’s small. You’re famous. If you really wanted to… you could meet her.”

He gave her a warning look, but she only smirked wider.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said.

“Oh, I’m definitely thinking about it,” she replied, already pulling out her phone. “Let’s just say — I have ideas.”

Two weeks later.

Miguel had almost — almost — managed to move on. He’d buried himself in work, interviews, script reads, and press meetings. The whole Y/n thing was just a passing distraction. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Then one morning, Madeline showed up on set with that look. The one that meant she was up to something.

“What did you do?” Miguel asked, suspicious immediately.

Madeline feigned innocence. “Nothing illegal.”

“That doesn’t sound comforting.”

“Relax,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I just helped someone… get noticed.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Madeline.”

But she was already walking away, humming.

Meanwhile, across town, Y/n was sitting at her desk, bouncing with excitement. Her latest video had just gone live — a vlog titled “Big News (and I’m freaking out)”.

“So, um… surprise!” she said, grinning at the camera. “I may or may not have auditioned for something. Like, an actual movie. Totally random, right? I didn’t think I’d get it, but apparently the universe was in a good mood because… I did.” She giggled, hiding her face behind her hands.

“I can’t say what movie yet — NDA and all that serious Hollywood stuff — but I can say it’s something really, really cool. So yeah. Guess this YouTuber’s going Hollywood.” Her comment section immediately exploded with excitement and speculation.

A week later.

Production had officially started for The Black Phone 2. Miguel was on set, running through his lines, focused, composed — until Madeline appeared again, this time with a gleam in her eyes that screamed chaos incoming.

“What now?” he muttered, flipping through his script.

“Oh, nothing,” she said, far too casually. “Just… you might want to check your phone.”

He frowned and pulled it out. Notifications were blowing up — texts from friends, mentions on social media, a few articles already trending.

Confused, he opened one link. It was a YouTube video. Y/n: “So I can finally tell you what movie I’m in!”

He froze.

He hit play.

“Okay, guys,” Y/n said, beaming into the camera. “So I’ve been keeping this secret forever, but today’s the day! I got cast in The Black Phone 2! Like — me, in an actual movie! With real actors! I’m losing my mind!” She laughed, that same laugh that had ruined his sleep for nights, pure and bright and utterly unbothered.

“Anyway, I start filming this week. Wish me luck! I’ll try not to trip on set.” The video ended.

Miguel blinked. Once. Twice.

Then — “What?”

Madeline was grinning ear to ear. “Surprise.”

He stared at her. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did,” she said proudly. “She auditioned, I made sure casting saw it, and guess what? She earned it. She’s good, Miguel. Really good.”

Miguel’s brain short-circuited. He stood there, jaw slack, heart pounding. “She’s— she’s coming here?”

Madeline nodded. “Tomorrow.”

He ran a hand over his face, muttering something in Spanish that sounded halfway between a prayer and a curse.

Madeline tried not to laugh. “What’s the problem? You like her. This is literally your dream scenario.”

“She’s going to think I’m—” he gestured helplessly “—some weird fan who watches her baking videos at 3 a.m.!”

“Well,” Madeline said, sipping her coffee with satisfaction, “you are.”

He glared.

She smirked. “Relax, movie star. Just play it cool. Don’t act like you’ve seen every one of her vlogs.”

Miguel groaned, already dreading the next day. Because for the first time in his career, it wasn’t a stunt, a script, or a scene that had him nervous.

It was her.

The soundstage for The Black Phone 2 buzzed with quiet chaos — lights being adjusted, crew members calling out instructions, cameras rolling test shots.

Miguel sat in his chair, pretending to scroll through his script. He’d been on hundreds of sets before, but today his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. Every time someone walked by, his head snapped up like a paranoid meerkat.

Madeline, of course, noticed. “You’re going to sprain something,” she murmured, not looking up from her tablet.

He glared at her. “You could’ve warned me.”

“I did warn you. Yesterday. Several times.”

“I meant emotionally warn me.”

She chuckled. “I don’t think that’s possible for you.”

Before he could retort, the assistant director called out, “Alright, folks! Our new cast member is here — let’s give her a warm welcome!”

Miguel froze.

His heart stuttered like someone hit pause on it.

And then — she walked in.

Y/n.

In real life, she was somehow both exactly like her videos and nothing like them at all. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, a script clutched nervously in her hands. She was dressed casually, but there was something about her presence — open, curious, alive — that filled the entire room.

She waved shyly to the crew. “Hi, uh… wow. This is… a lot of people.”

Laughter rippled across the set.

Madeline leaned toward Miguel, whispering, “Breathe, Romeo.”

He didn’t. Couldn’t. He was too busy trying not to look like a lovestruck idiot.

Y/n scanned the room — and then her gaze landed on him.

For a moment, her eyes widened. Recognition flickered across her face, followed by shock. “Miguel?” she said under her breath, like she wasn’t sure she was seeing right.

Madeline smirked. “She knows who you are. That’s a good start.”

Miguel stood, trying to look casual, failing spectacularly. “Uh— hi.”

She smiled, stepping closer. “Hi. I— okay, sorry, this is so weird. You’re you.”

“And you’re… here,” he said, which was apparently the best his brain could manage.

Y/n laughed, and he swore it was the best sound he’d ever heard in his life.

“Yeah, I’m, uh… the awkward YouTuber invading your serious acting space,” she joked, scratching the back of her neck.

He shook his head quickly. “No, no — you’re… you’re not awkward.”

Madeline coughed pointedly. “Smooth.”

Y/n’s grin widened. “Thanks. I’ve seen your movies, by the way. You’re kind of intimidating in person.”

Miguel rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly seventeen again. “You’re… not what I expected.”

“Oh?” she tilted her head, teasing. “What did you expect?”

“Louder. Maybe a little less…” He caught himself before saying beautiful. “…less calm,” he finished weakly.

Y/n smiled — small, genuine, the kind that reached her eyes. “Don’t worry. Give me an hour; the chaos will kick in.”

Madeline snorted. “Oh, I like her already.”

The director called everyone to position, breaking the moment. Y/n excused herself to talk to the crew, still wearing that infectious smile.

Miguel watched her go, heart thudding like a drum.

Madeline leaned closer, voice smug. “Still think you can play it cool?”

He didn’t even answer. His eyes were still on Y/n.

Because for the first time, she wasn’t pixels on a screen. She was real. And that realization hit him harder than any line he’d ever delivered.

...

Day two of filming

Y/n arrived early — a miracle considering she barely slept. She’d spent most of the night replaying yesterday in her head: the lights, the crew, the way Miguel had smiled at her (awkwardly, adorably).

She kept telling herself to be professional. Calm. Normal. But that was hard when her co-star was Miguel Mora.

Across the soundstage, Miguel was doing the same thing — pacing near the monitors, script in hand, pretending to rehearse when really he was trying not to glance at her every two seconds.

Madeline was enjoying every second of it.

The director clapped his hands together. “Alright, people! First scene with both our leads. Let’s make some magic.”

Miguel took his mark. Y/n stepped up beside him, trying to hide the tremor in her hands.

“Hey,” he said softly, just for her. “You ready?”

She smiled, eyes bright. “As I’ll ever be.”

The director called, “Rolling!”

And just like that — the world went quiet.

The camera was on. Miguel turned toward her, voice lower now, his character bleeding through every word.

“You shouldn’t have come back here,” he said, stepping closer, tension crackling in the air.

Y/n swallowed, instinctively reacting, her character’s fear and defiance mixing perfectly.

“Someone had to,” she replied, voice trembling — not from nerves this time, but from something electric.

Miguel looked into her eyes — and something shifted. He forgot the camera. Forgot the lines. Forgot everything but her.

There was a spark there, real and raw, that neither of them could fake.

The director didn’t cut. He just let them move — closer, matching breath for breath, emotion for emotion.

When the scene finally ended, the set stayed silent for a beat — then erupted into applause.

“Holy hell,” one of the crew whispered. “They’ve got chemistry.”

Madeline smirked from behind the monitor. “Told you so.”

Y/n let out a shaky laugh, adrenaline still humming through her. “Was that okay?”

Miguel turned toward her, still catching his breath. “Okay? That was…” He stopped himself before saying perfect. “…pretty great.”

She grinned. “You didn’t forget your lines this time.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Only because you made me remember them.”

The director called for a short break, and as the crew scattered, Y/n sat down on the edge of the set, scrolling through her script again.

Madeline walked by Miguel, whispering just loud enough for him to hear, “You realize you just fell harder, right?”

He didn’t deny it.

Because as he glanced at Y/n — laughing now with one of the lighting guys, her energy bright as ever — he knew Madeline was right.

This wasn’t just admiration anymore. It wasn’t curiosity. It was something real.

And the scariest part? He couldn’t tell where the acting ended and the feeling began.

...

The afternoon sun poured through the studio windows, catching the dust in warm golden streaks. The crew was resetting lights, chatting, laughing. Miguel and Y/n were sitting off to the side, still buzzing from the earlier scene — that magnetic pull between them neither could quite explain.

The afternoon sun poured through the studio windows, catching the dust in warm golden streaks. The crew was resetting lights, chatting, laughing. Miguel and Y/n were sitting off to the side, still buzzing from the earlier scene — that magnetic pull between them neither could quite explain.

Y/n took a sip of her iced coffee, trying to play it cool. “So… not bad for a YouTuber, right?”

Miguel smiled — that rare, soft kind. “You were incredible.”

She blinked. “Wow, that sounded almost shocked.”

He laughed. “No, I just mean… you made the scene real. That’s rare.”

Y/n tilted her head, studying him. “You’re a lot nicer than I thought you’d be.”

“And you’re a lot calmer than I expected,” he said, a teasing glint in his eye.

She grinned. “Give it time.”

Before he could respond, the director clapped his hands and called, “Okay, everyone! Quick announcement before we move on.”

The entire crew quieted. The director held up his tablet. “We got a note from the studio this morning — minor script change for the next scene. Miguel, Y/n… you’ll be filming the rewritten version of scene sixteen tomorrow.”

Miguel frowned. “Scene sixteen?”

Y/n flipped through her script. “That’s the confrontation scene, right?”

The director nodded. “Right — except now, instead of the fade-out at the end, the scene ends with a kiss.”

Silence.

Utter, perfect silence.

Y/n blinked. “A… kiss?”

“Yup. It’s small, not romantic yet — just charged. Adds emotional tension.” The director smiled. “Shouldn’t be a problem for you two. The chemistry’s already there.”

Miguel’s jaw tightened slightly. He could feel Madeline’s grin from halfway across the room.

“Uh,” Y/n said, cheeks heating up, “yeah, no problem at all. Totally fine. Normal day at work.”

Miguel nodded stiffly. “Of course.”

But when their eyes met, neither of them could look away.

The air felt heavier suddenly — not awkward, just aware.

Madeline strolled by, sipping her coffee like she hadn’t orchestrated this whole thing. “What’s the matter, movie star?” she teased under her breath. “You kiss people in films all the time.”

Miguel shot her a deadly look. “Not people I—” He stopped himself just in time.

Madeline raised an eyebrow. “Not people you what?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, grabbing his script and pretending to reread it.

Y/n glanced at him from across the set, lips quirking in a tiny smile. “Guess we’re really testing that chemistry tomorrow, huh?”

Miguel forced a calm chuckle. “Guess so.”

But his pulse was pounding, and every rational thought had fled his brain.

Because now all he could think about — all he could think about — was tomorrow. And the fact that soon, she’d be that close.

...

The next morning, the entire set seemed quieter. Or maybe it just felt quieter — that kind of electric stillness that hums right before something happens.

Y/n showed up early again, coffee in one hand, script in the other. She’d reread scene sixteen at least a dozen times last night, but the words still made her stomach flip.

“He steps closer. She doesn’t move away.” “They kiss.”

Simple on paper. Terrifying in real life.

She told herself it was fine. Actors did this every day. This was part of the job. Still, she couldn’t help checking her reflection in her phone camera — twice.

Across the stage, Miguel was pacing.

Madeline watched him with that smug, “I told you so” expression that had become her default. “You look like you’re about to walk into a boxing match.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You’re not fine,” she said. “You’ve been running lines for twenty minutes and it’s three pages of dialogue.”

He sighed, rubbing his jaw. “It’s just— she’s new to this. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.”

Madeline smirked. “Sure. That’s why you’ve been practicing breathing exercises for the past five minutes.”

He glared. “Madeline.”

“Okay, okay.” She held up her hands, grinning. “But if you faint mid-scene, I’m telling everyone it was because she smiled at you.”

“Alright, people!” the director called out. “Scene sixteen! Emotional peak! Let’s get ready to roll!”

Y/n and Miguel took their marks.

He turned to her. “You good?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Totally. Just… don’t laugh if I mess up.”

He smiled, that soft, steady smile that made her chest tighten. “I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The director raised a hand. “And… action!”

The scene began — tense and raw.

Miguel’s character took a step forward, anger and heartbreak in his eyes. “You shouldn’t have come back,” he said, voice low, shaking.

Y/n met his gaze, matching his emotion beat for beat. “And you should’ve stopped me.”

He moved closer. So, close she could feel the warmth of his breath. The air between them crackled, thick with everything unsaid.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he whispered

“Then show me,” she shot back, voice trembling.

The silence that followed wasn’t scripted. Neither of them broke eye contact.

And then — instinct took over.

Miguel leaned in, slowly, giving her every chance to pull back. She didn’t. Their lips met — soft at first, hesitant, but then something deeper slipped through, something real.

The world fell away.

There was no camera, no director, no crew. Just the press of her hand against his chest, his breath catching, the way her lips parted slightly like she wanted to say something but forgot how.

When the director finally called, “Cut!”, no one moved.

Y/n blinked, dazed, stepping back slightly. “Wow.”

Miguel exhaled, his voice low. “Yeah.”

The crew burst into quiet applause. The director grinned. “Perfect. That was exactly what I wanted. You two—” he pointed at them “—have something special here.”

Madeline was smirking like she’d just witnessed history. “Told you,” she mouthed.

Y/n laughed nervously, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “So, uh… good scene.”

Miguel nodded, still catching his breath. “Yeah. Really… good.”

They both turned away at the same time, trying to hide the same thing — that for a brief, impossible moment, the line between acting and feeling had disappeared completely.

Filming wrapped for the day. The crew was packing up equipment, lights dimming, chatter fading into background noise.

Y/n lingered near the edge of the set, absently scrolling through her phone — not really reading anything. Her mind kept replaying the moment.

The way his hand had found her waist. The way he’d looked at her after. How for a second, she’d forgotten there even was a camera.

She tried to shake it off. It’s acting, she told herself. Just acting.

But when Miguel approached — hands in his pockets, looking a little too unsure for someone as usually composed as him — her heart started doing that thing again.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She looked up, smiling faintly. “Hey.”

“Good work today,” he said, clearing his throat. “The scene came out really strong.”

Y/n nodded. “Yeah… it felt—uh—real.”

He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. That’s what I was going to say.”

Silence fell between them for a moment — not awkward, just heavy. Charged.

Finally, she said, “You wanted to talk about something?”

He hesitated, glancing around the nearly empty set. “I just… didn’t want you to think I crossed a line earlier. The kiss — it wasn’t…” He trailed off, searching for words.

Y/n tilted her head. “Wasn’t what?”

Miguel’s jaw flexed. “It wasn’t planned. Not like that. I got caught up in the moment. I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”

Her eyes softened. “It didn’t.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “It didn’t?”

She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Honestly? It felt… natural. Which is weird, because I don’t usually get that kind of connection on camera.”

Miguel exhaled, relief washing over his face. “Yeah. Same.”

They both laughed quietly — that kind of nervous laughter that fills the space when neither of them knows what to say next.

Y/n looked down, tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “So… what now? We just pretend we’re totally fine and didn’t have a moment that might’ve fried both our brains?”

Miguel smirked. “Pretty much.”

She grinned back. “Cool. Totally fine. No problem.”

But then their eyes met again — and neither of them looked away.

For a long beat, the air between them hummed, soft and unspoken.

Finally, Miguel said, quieter now, “For what it’s worth… I’m glad it was you.”

Y/n’s smile faltered for just a second — replaced by something warmer, deeper. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Me too.”

Madeline’s voice broke through from across the room: “Hey, lovebirds! We’re heading out — you two coming or staying here to stare at each other for another hour?”

Y/n nearly choked on her coffee. “We’re coming!”

Miguel just groaned. “She’s never letting me live this down.”

As they walked out together, side by side, their shoulders brushed — light, accidental, but enough to send that same quiet electricity sparking again.

And neither of them said a word about it.

...

Y/n sat cross-legged on her hotel bed, laptop open, hair up in a messy bun, a half-eaten bag of chips beside her. The plan was to edit a vlog — distract herself, stay productive, be normal.

Instead, she’d spent the last twenty minutes staring at a blank timeline. Every time she tried to work, her brain pulled her back to that kiss.

The way his breath had hitched. The way his hand had trembled — just slightly — against her waist. The way her heart had stopped when he’d whispered, “I’m glad it was you.”

She groaned, collapsing back into the pillows. “Nope. Not thinking about it. Not doing this.”

But her phone buzzed. And the name on the screen made her sit straight up.

Miguel.

Her stomach did a full Olympic-level somersault.

She unlocked it to see a single message:

Miguel: Did you see the footage they sent?

Y/n blinked.

Y/n: Uh, no? Did we get today’s cut already?

Miguel: Yeah. They sent a playback link for us to review the emotional pacing.

Y/n: Translation: the kiss.

Miguel: …maybe.

She laughed out loud, biting her lip.

Y/n: You watched it, didn’t you?

There was a long pause before he replied.

Miguel: Once. Miguel: Okay, twice.

Her heart flipped.

Y/n: And?

Miguel: It looked real. Miguel: Too real.

She stared at the screen, pulse quickening.

Y/n: That’s… good, right? For the film?

Another pause.

Miguel: Yeah. For the film.

She could almost hear the hesitation in that text — the same hesitation that had lingered in his eyes earlier.

Before she could respond, another message came through.

Miguel: You were amazing today. I mean that.

Y/n smiled softly, typing back before she could overthink it.

Y/n: Thanks. You weren’t bad yourself, movie star.

There was no reply for a minute. Then:

Miguel: Goodnight, Y/n.

Y/n: Night, Miguel.

She set her phone down beside her and stared at the ceiling, a slow grin spreading across her face.

Because now she knew. Whatever was happening between them — it wasn’t just in her head.

...

Miguel sat in his apartment, sitting on his couch with the playback paused on his TV.

The still frame showed Y/n mid-laugh, right before the kiss — eyes bright, lips curved, that spark of something genuine.

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, a small, helpless smile tugging at his mouth.

“Yeah,” he murmured to himself. “I’m in trouble.”

...

The next morning, the set was buzzing. Lights being adjusted, makeup brushes tapping, coffee cups clinking — that familiar organized chaos.

Y/n walked in, clutching her iced coffee like a lifeline. She’d barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him — that look right after the kiss, that half-smile that had completely wrecked her.

“Morning, superstar,” Madeline called, spotting her from across the room.

Y/n smiled wearily. “Morning, Maddie.”

Madeline raised a brow, that grin way too knowing. “Sleep okay?”

“Sure,” Y/n said quickly. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” Madeline sipped her coffee. “Except Miguel was here before call time. Which never happens. Almost like someone couldn’t sleep.”

Y/n froze mid-sip. “You’re imagining things.”

Madeline smirked. “Am I?”

As if on cue, Miguel walked in — perfectly put together, dark hair slightly tousled, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He greeted a few crew members, then his gaze landed on Y/n.

And just like that — his easy confidence slipped. His jaw clenched, his steps slowed, and that flicker of warmth crossed his face before he schooled it back into calm professionalism.

Madeline leaned closer to Y/n. “Yep. Definitely not imagining it.”

“Stop,” Y/n whispered, cheeks burning.

Miguel approached, offering a polite smile. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Y/n echoed, trying very hard not to melt under his gaze.

Madeline beamed between them. “You two ready for today’s scene?”

“What scene?” Y/n asked warily.

Miguel frowned. “They changed it again?”

Madeline’s grin turned mischievous. “Oh, didn’t you hear? It’s a chemistry scene. Director wants to capture that… what did he call it? ‘Unspoken tension.’”

Y/n nearly choked on her coffee. “You’re kidding.”

Madeline shrugged innocently. “I wish I were.”

Miguel exhaled through his nose, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Of course. Because why wouldn’t he notice?”

“Notice what?” Y/n asked too quickly.

Madeline gave her a look that said everything. “Please. You two practically set the monitor on fire yesterday.”

Y/n groaned, covering her face. “I hate you.”

“No, you love me,” Madeline said cheerfully, patting her arm. “Now go flirt for the camera.”

...

Y/n stood opposite Miguel, waiting for “action.” He looked calm, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his side like he was grounding himself.

The scene wasn’t even that intimate — just a quiet conversation between their characters. But the air between them felt alive again, crackling, like the space itself was aware of every unspoken thing neither of them had said.

When the director finally called cut, there was a beat of silence before the crew started clapping.

One of the lighting techs laughed. “Man, you two don’t even need a love scene. Just standing there looks romantic.”

Y/n felt her face heat up. “Thanks?”

Miguel just rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to smile.

As they walked off set, Y/n muttered under her breath, “They’re never going to stop teasing us, are they?”

Miguel glanced over, smirking softly. “Probably not.”

She looked at him, studying his expression — the warmth there, the way his eyes lingered just a little too long.

“Guess we’ll just have to give them something to talk about, huh?” she said jokingly.

Miguel’s gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. A heartbeat passed.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low. “I might take that as a challenge.”

Y/n swallowed hard, her pulse doing that wild flutter again. “Maybe that’s the point.”

“Action!”

Miguel’s character took a step closer, voice low but sharp. “You think you can just walk away like none of this meant anything?”

Y/n met his gaze, trying to stay in character. “I didn’t say it meant nothing!”

“Then what are you saying?” His voice cracked — raw, real.

Y/n’s breath caught. Because that wasn’t scripted. Not that tone. Not that look.

She tried to pull herself back into the scene. “I’m saying—” Her voice wavered. “I’m saying it’s complicated.”

Miguel took another step, too close now. The kind of close where she could see every flicker in his eyes.

“It doesn’t have to be.” His tone was quieter this time — barely more than a whisper.

Something inside her twisted. Because suddenly it wasn’t her character speaking anymore. It was her. It was him.

The silence stretched between them, thick, fragile.

Then the director’s voice cut through the air: “And… cut!”

The set erupted in the usual buzz — crew members chatting, someone clapping, the sound of equipment being adjusted. But Y/n and Miguel didn’t move. They were still locked there, staring at each other like the rest of the world had fallen away.

Finally, Y/n took a small step back, her voice barely above a whisper. “That… felt different.”

Miguel swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.

Then she smiled nervously, trying to play it off. “Guess we’re just getting really good at acting together, huh?”

He gave a small laugh — but there was something behind it. “Yeah. Acting.”

She tilted her head. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, though the look in his eyes betrayed him. “You just— You make it hard to tell where the scene ends, that’s all.”

That stopped her cold.

“Miguel…” she started, unsure what to say.

He just shook his head, backing away slightly. “Forget I said that. I don’t want to mess up the dynamic.”

But the thing was — it was already too late. The dynamic had changed.

And when Madeline walked by a moment later, raising an eyebrow at them, Y/n could only manage a helpless, breathless laugh.

...

Later that night

Y/n sat on her balcony, scrolling through the day’s footage the director had sent. The argument scene.

Halfway through, she paused the video — on the exact moment Miguel had looked at her like she was the only thing in the room.

She replayed that second three times.

And for the first time since she’d met him… She couldn’t tell what was real anymore.

...

The music was loud, the lights warm, and everyone was celebrating. Weeks of long nights, endless retakes, and quiet moments between takes had finally come to an end.

Y/n stood near the edge of the crowd, a glass of champagne in hand, watching everyone dance and laugh. She should’ve felt proud — her first big movie, a dream come true — but her thoughts kept circling back to him.

Miguel.

He was across the room, talking to the director, suit jacket undone, tie hanging loose. Every now and then, his gaze flicked toward her — like he couldn’t help it — and each time, her heart gave that same traitorous skip.

Madeline, as usual, noticed first.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, sidling up to Y/n. “You two are still doing the ‘stare from across the room’ thing?”

Y/n groaned, hiding her face in her hand. “Please don’t start.”

Madeline grinned. “No, no, I’m happy for you. Tortured slow-burn romances are my favorite — but this is getting ridiculous. Go talk to him before someone writes fanfiction about you two.”

“Madeline—”

But she was already walking away, waving a hand dramatically. “I said what I said.”

Y/n turned back just in time to see Miguel’s conversation wrap up. He caught her looking — again — and this time, he didn’t look away.

He started toward her.

Each step made her pulse race faster. By the time he stopped in front of her, she could barely breathe.

“Hey,” he said softly, almost drowned out by the music.

“Hey,” she echoed, nerves fluttering in her chest.

He gestured toward the quieter balcony. “Want to get some air?”

She nodded, following him out into the cool night. The city glittered below them, muffled laughter spilling from inside. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Finally, she broke the silence. “So… we actually did it. Finished the movie.”

Miguel smiled. “Yeah. You were incredible, by the way.”

She laughed lightly. “Thanks. You weren’t bad yourself.”

He looked at her then — really looked — and the teasing fell away. “Y/n,” he said quietly, “I meant what I said that day. You make it hard to tell where the acting stops.”

Her breath caught.

“Miguel…” she whispered, unsure what to say, but he shook his head.

“I’ve been trying to play it off,” he admitted, voice rough. “Trying to be professional. But every time I see you, it’s like—” He exhaled shakily. “It’s like I’m right back in that scene.”

Y/n’s heart pounded so hard she swore he could hear it. “You think you’re the only one?” she said softly.

He blinked. “What?”

“I felt it too. Every single time. And I kept pretending it was nothing, but…” She gave a small, helpless smile. “I don’t think it ever was.”

For a second, neither of them moved. The world seemed to go quiet.

Then Miguel stepped closer — slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t.

His hand brushed her cheek, thumb tracing the corner of her mouth. “Tell me if this is still acting,” he whispered.

Y/n’s breath hitched — and then she leaned in, closing the space between them.

The kiss was nothing like the one on camera. It wasn’t rehearsed or careful — it was real. Warm. Messy. Theirs.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, smiling like idiots.

“Well,” Y/n murmured, “that’s definitely not going in the blooper reel.”

Miguel laughed softly, forehead resting against hers. “Guess not.”

Inside, the party music swelled again — but out here, under the city lights, it felt like the world had gone still.

For the first time, neither of them had to pretend.

...

This one was very long lol. but there will be a part two. Also, if you ever see "Miguel O'Hara" in my fics pls ignore that no I do not write for him, but I did make my own fic once so my keyboard automatically puts his name lol.

Taglist: @dayluxe @u-rmom-dot-com @littlemissmuffet1265846 @catturns1015

The living room lights were low, the TV casting a flickering blue glow across the carpet. Bruno was sprawled on the couch, controller in hand, yelling at the game and at Y/n in equal measure.

“Y/n! Grab us some more chips! And a soda!”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She was halfway to the kitchen before Miguel’s voice — low, smooth, and amused — followed after her. “You don’t have to listen to him, you know.”

Y/n smiled over her shoulder, pretending to shrug it off. “I’m used to it. He’s always bossy when he’s losing.”

That earned a soft laugh from Miguel — the kind that made her chest flutter. He’d been coming over for months now, always with that same easy grin and messy hair, always polite enough to make her nervous just by saying her name.

When she came back with the snacks, she squeezed onto the armchair beside the couch. She wasn’t really watching the game — her eyes kept drifting to Miguel’s hands, the way his thumbs moved quickly over the controller, the way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows.

At one point, he glanced over. Their eyes met for just a second too long.

Y/n’s breath caught.

Miguel smirked slightly, eyes flicking back to the screen. “You’re staring,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her face went hot instantly. “I—what? No, I wasn’t!”

He chuckled softly, leaning back. “Sure you weren’t.”

Bruno groaned as his character got knocked out, throwing the controller down. “Ugh, I’m done. You two can play if you want.”

Y/n opened her mouth to protest, but Miguel had already turned to her, handing her the spare controller. “Guess it’s just us then,” he said, eyes glinting with that teasing warmth.

And as she took the controller, hands brushing his for a brief second.

Bruno stretched with a groan and stood. “Alright, I’m getting something from the garage. Don’t touch my save file.” He jabbed a finger at Y/n, then disappeared down the hall, leaving the hum of the TV and the sound of their breathing behind.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The air felt different — heavier somehow, like the whole room was waiting for what would happen next.

Miguel shifted, leaning back against the couch, his arm draped casually along the top cushion. “Your brother’s intense,” he said with a grin.

Y/n laughed quietly. “Yeah. He thinks he’s the boss of everyone.”

Miguel tilted his head, studying her for a second. “And you just let him boss you around?”

She shrugged, eyes fixed on the TV. “He’s my brother. I don’t mind helping out.”

Miguel’s voice dropped a little lower. “Even when he treats you like his maid?”

Y/n looked up then, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. “Maybe… maybe I don’t mind helping when you’re here,” she said before she could stop herself.

He blinked — and then that slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Oh, yeah?”

Her heart was pounding now. She tried to laugh it off. “Don’t get a big head about it.”

But Miguel was still watching her — not teasing this time, not quite. His eyes flicked from her face to her hands, back up again. “You’ve got this look, you know,” he said quietly.

“What look?”

“The one that makes it hard to focus on the game.”

Y/n froze, the warmth creeping up her neck. “You’re just saying that.”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning just a little closer. “But maybe I’m not.”

The garage door clattered somewhere in the distance — a reminder that Bruno was still nearby — and Y/n suddenly realized how close they were sitting. Neither of them moved right away.

Miguel smiled again, softer this time. “He’ll be back in a minute,” he murmured, like a promise and a warning all at once.

And just before he turned back to the screen, his hand brushed hers — brief, almost accidental — but it left her pulse racing.

The sound of the garage door rattling shut made them spring apart a little — not far, but enough that Y/n grabbed the controller like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

Miguel cleared his throat and sat forward, elbows on his knees, pretending to focus on the screen.

A moment later, Bruno stomped back in, carrying a bag of chips. “You guys start without me?” he said, dropping onto the couch between them.

Y/n forced a casual laugh. “You said not to touch your save file. We were just… waiting.”

Bruno nodded approvingly. “Good. Now move over, you’re blocking my view.”

Y/n scooted to the edge of the chair. Miguel gave her a tiny glance — a quick flicker of amusement — and she almost smiled, but caught herself just in time.

For the next half hour, they played, laughed, and yelled at the screen like nothing had happened. But every so often, Y/n could feel it again — that electric awareness. The brush of Miguel’s knee against hers when he shifted. The way his voice softened when he talked to her.

Bruno didn’t notice. He was too focused on the game, shouting, “Yes! Finally!” when his character won.

Miguel leaned back, chuckling. “Guess that’s my cue to quit while I’m ahead.” He set the controller down and stood, stretching.

Y/n followed him to the door when Bruno went to put the game away. The hallway was dim, the air still humming with everything they hadn’t said.

Miguel looked down at her, eyes warm. “Good game,” he said quietly.

She smiled. “You let him win.”

He grinned, stepping backward toward the door. “Maybe I did.”

Their eyes met one last time — a second too long again — before Bruno’s voice echoed from the living room. “Yo, Miguel! You heading out?”

“Yeah, man,” he called back, still looking at her. “See you later.”

When the door closed, Y/n stood there a moment longer, trying to steady her heartbeat.

Bruno came in, tossing a chip into his mouth. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, turning back toward the couch. But her smile gave her away.

The house was quiet when Bruno finally called it a night. “Don’t stay up too late,” he muttered, heading down the hall. “I won’t,” Y/n said, still smiling to herself.

An hour later, the TV had gone dark, and she was ready to call it a night too. She’d changed into her sleep clothes and was halfway to her room when there was a knock at the front door — soft but quick, like someone unsure whether to wake the whole house.

Her heart jumped. Nobody ever came this late.

When she opened the door, Miguel was there — hair a little mussed from the wind, phone charger in one hand. “Hey,” he said, sheepish. “Sorry. I, uh, left my phone somewhere in your living room.”

Y/n blinked, startled but smiling. “You scared me.”

“Didn’t mean to,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I knocked lightly because I didn’t want to wake Bruno.”

She stepped aside, whispering, “Come in before he hears you.”

Miguel slipped inside, moving quietly through the dim light. He found his phone on the coffee table, the screen lighting up his face. “Got it,” he said with a relieved sigh. Then he looked up — and they just… stared at each other for a moment.

Something about the late hour made everything feel softer, more fragile. The laughter from earlier was gone; what was left was quiet, steady warmth.

“You really didn’t have to come back tonight,” Y/n said softly.

He smiled, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Yeah, but I didn’t feel right leaving it here.” He paused, eyes searching hers. “Guess I didn’t mind seeing you again either.”

Y/n’s breath caught. “Even if it’s almost midnight?”

“Maybe especially then.”

Before either of them could say more, a floorboard creaked down the hall — Bruno stirring in his room. They both froze, then looked at each other with barely-contained laughter.

“Go,” she whispered, smiling.

He nodded but didn’t move right away. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” she said, heartbeat quickening. “See you tomorrow.”

He smiled, opened the door quietly, and disappeared into the night — leaving her standing in the doorway.

The next morning, sunlight spilled across the kitchen counter as Y/n poured herself some cereal. Bruno was already halfway out the door, muttering about being late to meet Miguel at the auto shop.

“Miguel’s picking me up,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Y/n said, grinning into her bowl.

A few minutes later, she heard a car pull into the driveway. She didn’t mean to peek through the window — it just happened. Miguel was leaning against his car, laughing at something on his phone, looking impossibly at ease in the morning light.

Bruno ran out with his jacket half on. “Let’s go, man.”

Miguel looked up then — and caught Y/n watching from the window. Their eyes met for just a heartbeat, and there it was again: that same quiet pulse from the night before.

He smiled, small and secret, before climbing into the car.

Later that afternoon, Y/n was walking home from the grocery store when she heard someone call her name. She turned to see Miguel again, this time alone, walking toward her with that same easy smile.

“Hey,” he said. “Bruno had to stay late. I figured I’d head out early. I let him borrow my car”

“Oh,” she said, trying not to sound too happy. “So you’re free then?”

He grinned. “Guess so. Want me to walk you home?”

They fell into step together. The street was quiet except for the crunch of gravel underfoot and the sound of cicadas.

“Bruno didn't notice I came back last night, did he??” he asked.

Y/n shook her head. “Bruno didn’t even notice. He never does.”

Miguel laughed softly. “Guess that’s good for me.”

She looked up at him, curious. “Why’s that?”

He hesitated for a second — then shrugged, smiling. “Because if he noticed everything, I wouldn’t get to talk to you like this.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she smiled back. “You’re pretty smooth, you know that?”

“Maybe a little.” He glanced sideways at her. “You don’t seem to mind.”

She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “I didn’t say that.”

They reached her house, stopping at the gate. The air hung heavy between them again — not awkward, just charged with things neither of them dared to say yet.

Miguel shifted his weight, hands in his pockets. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” Y/n said softly. “See you around.”

He turned to go — but just before he reached the end of the driveway, he looked back with a smile that made her heart stumble all over again.

The next evening, the air was warm and still, the sky fading into deep pink and blue. Bruno had gone to meet some friends, leaving the house unusually quiet.

Y/n sat on the porch steps, absently tracing patterns on the railing, when a familiar car pulled up to the curb.

Miguel leaned out the window, smiling. “You always out here this time of day, or did I get lucky?”

She grinned. “Maybe a little of both.”

He got out, walking over with that relaxed way of his — hands in his pockets, easy smile, eyes that always looked like they were holding back a secret.

“Bruno around?” he asked, glancing toward the door.

“Nope,” she said, trying to sound casual. “You just missed him.”

Miguel raised a brow. “Huh. Shame.” He leaned against the porch rail beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. “Guess I’ll just have to settle for your company.”

Y/n laughed softly. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“Oh, it’s not,” he said quickly, then grinned. “Just dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” she echoed, teasing.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softer now. “Every time I talk to you, I forget what I was supposed to be doing.”

She met his eyes, heart skipping. “You say that to all your best friend’s sisters?”

He chuckled. “No. Just the one who keeps smiling at me like that.”

Y/n looked down, cheeks warm, but she couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The sun dipped low, painting everything gold.

Finally, Miguel took a slow breath. “Y/n… I’ve been trying not to say this because, well— your brother and all that. But I really like being around you. More than I probably should.”

Her chest tightened, but in the best way. “Good,” she said softly. “Because I’ve liked you for a while now.”

Miguel blinked — and then that grin broke through, wide and warm. “You could’ve told me sooner, you know.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He laughed quietly, then reached out, brushing his fingers against hers. “You’re trouble.”

“Maybe,” she said, smiling up at him. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

He shook his head, eyes locked on hers. “Not even a little.”

The moment hung there, sweet and light — the kind of quiet that said everything without needing a word more.

They sat there for a while longer, the sky deepening from gold to violet. The street was quiet; even the cicadas had gone still.

Y/n could feel Miguel’s shoulder brushing hers now and then, light enough that it might’ve been an accident — except that he didn’t move away.

He turned a little, watching her. “You’re really quiet,” he said softly.

She smiled without looking at him. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Her eyes met his. “About how weird it is that you’re finally saying what I’ve been hoping you’d say for months.”

He laughed under his breath — a quiet, nervous sound — then shook his head. “Guess I’m slower than I thought.”

“Maybe just cautious,” she teased.

“Yeah. Cautious.” He hesitated, eyes dropping to her lips for the briefest second before finding hers again. “Still am.”

Y/n’s heartbeat quickened. “You don’t have to be.”

Miguel’s breath caught, like he hadn’t expected her to say that. For a moment neither of them moved — just the sound of the wind in the trees and the low hum of the night.

Then he leaned in — slow, careful, like he was giving her every chance to change her mind. She didn’t.

Their hands found each other halfway, fingers threading together, and the rest of the world seemed to fall away. When his lips touched hers, it was soft, hesitant — more a question than an answer — but it said everything they hadn’t managed to before.

When they finally pulled back, both smiling a little too much, Y/n whispered, “Took you long enough.”

Miguel grinned. “Worth the wait, though.”

The next morning, the smell of coffee drifted through the house. Bruno was at the table, flipping through a stack of mail, half awake. Y/n came in, pretending her heart wasn’t doing flips just at the memory of the night before.

Miguel was already there. He’d come to pick Bruno up for work like always, but now — after last night — everything looked different.

He greeted her with his usual grin. “Morning, Y/n.”

“Morning,” she managed, pouring herself some coffee that she definitely didn’t need.

Bruno looked between them suspiciously. “Why are you both smiling like that?”

Miguel coughed. “Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t,” Bruno said, narrowing his eyes.

Y/n forced a shrug. “Maybe you’re just paranoid, Bruno.”

Bruno squinted for a second longer, then went back to his mail. “Whatever. Miguel, you ready?”

“Yeah, almost,” Miguel said. He started toward the door, but as Y/n passed by, he reached out just long enough to tap her wrist with his fingers — a tiny, secret gesture that made her catch her breath.

She looked up; he winked.

Bruno turned around just in time to see them both look away too quickly. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” they said at the same time.

Bruno frowned. “You two are weird.”

Miguel grinned, opening the door. “You have no idea.”

When the door closed behind them, Y/n let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding — smiling to herself all over again.

Saturday afternoon at the house was always noisy. Music playing, snacks everywhere, Bruno yelling at the TV. Y/n had gotten used to Miguel hanging around so much lately — maybe too used to it. They’d gotten good at subtle looks, small touches, quick moments no one else noticed.

Until that day.

Bruno and Miguel were setting up the stereo in the living room, arguing about which tape to play. Y/n came in, grabbed a soda, and lingered a little too close to Miguel. He shot her a small grin — the kind that made her forget anyone else existed.

Bruno, of course, didn’t notice. Yet.

But then the phone rang in the kitchen. Y/n went to grab it, Miguel followed a minute later “to get more chips,” and that was their first mistake.

They ended up talking in the kitchen doorway, quiet and close — too close. Y/n laughed at something he said and playfully nudged his arm. He caught her hand without thinking, their fingers locking automatically.

That’s when Bruno walked in.

He froze mid-step, holding the chip bag like a weapon. “What. Is. This.”

Y/n jumped back so fast she nearly tripped. “Bruno! Hi! We were just—”

“Just what?” Bruno demanded, eyes darting between them. “Practicing handshakes?!”

Miguel held up both hands, trying not to laugh. “Hey, man, calm down—”

“Calm down?!” Bruno nearly choked. “You’re my best friend!”

“Exactly!” Miguel said quickly. “You know I’d never—” He paused, glancing at Y/n, who was turning bright red. “Okay, maybe I would, but—”

“Oh my God!” Bruno groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “I can’t deal with this right now!”

Y/n bit back a laugh. “Bruno, it’s not a big deal—”

“Not a big deal? You two were—” He gestured vaguely. “Holding hands!”

Miguel grinned. “Pretty sure that’s legal.”

That earned him a glare. “You’re dead to me.”

“C’mon,” Miguel said, stepping forward, trying to hide his smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

Bruno pointed toward the door. “Not today, I won’t! Out. Both of you. I need five minutes to pretend I didn’t just see that.”

Y/n and Miguel exchanged a look — trying, and failing, not to laugh.

As they stepped out onto the porch, Y/n nudged Miguel. “Well… that went well.”

Miguel chuckled, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “Yeah. Could’ve been worse.”

Behind them, the window slid open and Bruno’s voice yelled, “IT COULDN’T HAVE BEEN WORSE!”

Y/n burst out laughing. “You sure about that?”

Miguel grinned. “Give him a week. He’ll come around.”

“Think so?”

He smiled down at her. “He likes me too much not to.”

...

Taglist: @u-rmom-dot-com @littlemissmuffet1265846 @catturns1015 @dayluxe

The world had gone to hell and back — literally — but somehow, the Hawkins gang still found themselves spending Saturday nights at the Palace Arcade. It was their version of therapy: neon lights, soda that tasted vaguely like metal, and the sound of buttons clicking faster than the speed of light.

Max had finally gotten the hang of walking again, and while she still moved carefully, she was more herself lately — sarcastic, competitive, and determined to beat everyone at Dig Dug.

Y/n leaned against the machine beside her, watching with a fond smile. “You know, if you break another joystick, Steve’s never letting us back in here.”

“Then I’ll just blame you,” Max said, not looking away from the screen. “You’re the one distracting me.”

“Distracting you? I’m literally just standing here.”

“With that face,” Max deadpanned. “Unfair advantage.”

Y/n grinned. “You’re ridiculous.”

Behind them, Robin and Dustin were arguing about whose high score was more “legit.” Lucas was trying to keep the peace, and Steve was leaning against the counter pretending he wasn’t invested.

“Okay,” Robin called over the noise. “Winner gets free pizza on the losers. Fair?”

“Deal,” Max said. “But Y/n’s on my team.”

Dustin groaned. “That’s cheating! You two are always, like, in sync!”

Max smirked. “Guess we just make a good team.”

They started their round of Street Fighter, Max absolutely demolishing everyone in her path. When Dustin finally managed to land a hit, Max actually cursed under her breath — and without thinking, Y/n reached over, kissed her temple, and said softly, “You got this, babe.”

Silence.

Absolute, world-stopping silence.

Robin’s soda slipped out of her hand and hit the floor with a splat. Lucas froze mid-bite of his slice. Steve’s jaw dropped. Dustin’s face did that slow, loading screen expression he got when something short-circuited his brain.

“...babe?” Steve repeated.

Max’s eyes went wide. “Crap.”

Y/n tried to backpedal, cheeks burning. “Uh— I— I meant—”

Robin burst out laughing. “Oh my GOD. You two—since when?!”

Max sighed, already knowing it was useless. “Almost a year.”

“A year?” Dustin shouted, dramatically pointing. “A whole year and you didn’t tell us?!”

Lucas looked at Max, utterly betrayed. “I thought we were best friends!”

Max rolled her eyes. “You’d make it weird, that’s why.”

“Would not!”

“Lucas, you literally asked me last month if I’d ever ‘find a nice boyfriend someday.’”

“Okay—yeah, fair.”

Everyone was laughing now — even Steve, who was shaking his head like a proud but confused dad.

“Honestly,” Robin said between giggles, “good for you guys. Hawkins’ newest power couple.”

Y/n leaned in closer, trying not to laugh. “Guess the secret’s out now.”

Max shrugged, trying (and failing) to hide her smile. “Eh. Was bound to happen. Besides…” She reached for Y/n’s hand and squeezed it under the arcade cabinet. “Kinda nice not having to hide.”

Dustin, meanwhile, was muttering to himself. “I knew there was something going on. I said it. I knew it. Nobody listens to me—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said, ruffling his hair. “Save the speech, Henderson. You owe them pizza now.”

“Ugh! Fine. But I’m still getting extra toppings out of spite!”

And with that, the arcade erupted in laughter again — neon lights flashing, the hum of machines filling the air, and the two girls in the middle of it all finally free to be themselves.

After the chaos of the accidental reveal died down, the group migrated to their usual booth at Surfer Boy Pizza — half-eaten slices everywhere, Coke cans rolling across the table, and Dustin still loudly insisting he definitely knew all along.

Y/n had gone to grab napkins, and Robin took the chance to slide into the seat next to Max, lowering her voice.

“So,” she said casually, chin resting in her hand. “You and Y/n, huh?”

Max’s immediate instinct was defense. “Don’t start.”

Robin grinned. “Relax. I’m not starting anything. I’m just… curious. You’ve been holding that in for a year?”

Max shrugged, playing with her straw wrapper. “Yeah. Didn’t really feel like… a thing I could tell people, you know?”

Robin nodded slowly, her expression softening. “Yeah. I know.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The noise from the others — Lucas laughing, Dustin and Steve arguing about pineapple on pizza — faded into the background.

Robin finally said, “When I told Steve… I thought my heart was gonna explode. Not because I didn’t trust him, but because… you never really know how people are gonna react, right?”

“Exactly,” Max murmured.

“But he just looked at me,” Robin continued, “and said, ‘Cool, now I don’t have to feel bad for not being your type.’ And that was it.” She smiled. “It wasn’t this big dramatic thing. It was just… okay.”

Max’s mouth twitched. “That sounds like Steve.”

Robin chuckled. “Totally. But what I’m saying is — now that everyone knows, you don’t have to keep pretending. You can just be. You deserve that.”

Max looked down at the table, then back up, her voice quieter. “It was easier to keep it between us. It felt… safe. But Y/n never complained. Not once.”

“That’s how you know it’s good,” Robin said gently. “When someone’s willing to be patient while you figure yourself out.”

Max smiled a little at that. “Yeah. She’s kind of annoyingly perfect.”

“Gross,” Robin teased, nudging her shoulder. “You sound like a Hallmark card.”

Max snorted. “Shut up.”

Robin leaned back, crossing her arms with a smirk. “I’m just saying — if anyone gives you crap, I’ll sic Steve on them.”

“Steve? Really?”

“Okay, fine. I’ll sic Nancy on them. She’s way scarier.”

That made Max laugh — really laugh — the kind of sound she hadn’t made much since everything with Vecna. And Robin smiled, because that was the whole point.

When Y/n came back with napkins and caught Max smiling at her, Robin caught the look between them — soft, familiar, full of quiet affection — and she thought, yeah. They’re gonna be okay.

...