★Love Again - Haunted by a traumatic past and powers that bend reality, she was once Lex Luthor’s most dangerous weapon—until Clark Kent saw something human in her. Torn between redemption and self-destruction, she must face the truth about what she was made for… and who she might become. When betrayal shatters what little trust remains, their paths collide in a storm of secrets, scars, and impossible choices. In a city that worships heroes, can the girl built for chaos ever be more than a shadow of her past—or is love just another illusion she was never meant to touch? (1.6k)
⟡Love, Krypto - When an overworked new hire at the Daily Planet agrees to watch a small white dog in a Superman cape, she doesn’t expect laser eyes, levitation—or the unraveling of Clark Kent’s biggest secret. As Krypto, the superpowered pup, brings chaos and unexpected comfort into her life, she discovers that the quiet, kind reporter she’s been crushing on might just be the most powerful man in the world (1K)
★⟡Shattered Vows Masterlist (ongoing/on hold)- When Lex Luthor traps Superman in a kryptonite-laced prison, he exploits a hidden connection—an ordinary woman who once helped him to his feet. She becomes the perfect bait. But when she falls, everything Clark Kent thought he could endure shatters. (3.3k)
★Force Fields and Fault Lines - In a city where secrets weigh heavier than steel, she’s buried her past to protect her future. When a devastating attack shatters the fragile peace, the line between civilian and hero blurs once more. Amidst chaos and hidden truths, two lives collide—each carrying wounds deeper than the eye can see. As shadows close in, the choices they make could heal or break them forever. (3.3k)
★⟡Things That Break Between Plans Masterlist(Ongoing) - In the chaos of Hawkins’ latest nightmare, secrets crack under pressure. Trapped between monsters, military lockdowns, and a plan that barely holds, you're forced to confront the truth about what you mean to Mike Wheeler—and what you refuse to be anymore. When survival gives way to honesty, words cut deeper than any creature ever could. Some fights save your life. Others finally make you choose yourself. (3.3k)
⟡Late Nights and Stolen Moments - When a bike accident forces you into an unexpected favor, you find yourself alone with Mike Wheeler—just the two of you, the quiet night, and a drive that changes everything. Between whispered confessions, stolen kisses, and the chaos of everyday life, you navigate the thin line between friendship and something more. And sometimes, the safest place isn’t home—it’s in each other’s arms. (2.9K)
⟡Under Hawkins Stars - Coming home from college feels strange—until a little league game, makeshift pom-poms, and an unexpected reunion with Mike Wheeler pull you back into everything you thought you’d outgrown. What starts as cheering on your little brother turns into late-night laughter, stolen moments, and long-buried feelings resurfacing under the stars. As Hawkins reminds you of who you were, Mike helps you realize who you could be—together, this time, without missed chances. (6.0K)
★⟡❤︎I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do Masterlist- Collections and oneshots over the timespan of (Y/N) and Finn's relationship!
★⟡❤︎ Smart , Arrangements and Rules-If someone told 15 year old you that you not only would be acting off broadway but also were about to book a film with the one and only Finn Wolfhard you would have told them to shut up. Only now you're here and that exact statement is your reality only Finn isn't exactly as you imagined him..... in a good way.
⟡Take Two, Off Script- As an Ex Broadway star you have made it clear under no circumstances will you ever step into the limelight again. But after a meet and greet at comic con and an unexpected friendship you find that maybe stepping back into the world of Hollywood isn't so bad. Especially because of a certain Canadian.
Summary: The Stranger Things cast revisits season one, sharing behind-the-scenes anecdotes and reactions to iconic scenes.
Warnings/Tags: They can't not touch each other, your honor they are in love, they are not slick, Finn can't help himself, the people are onto them, little bit of Joe and reader, duffers did reader dirty in season 1
*****************
The camera fades in on you sitting alone on a wide, cream-colored couch, a soft throw blanket bunched beside you. The studio lighting is warm, relaxed, more like a living room than a set.
On the screen in front of you, a paused frame of Season 1 flickers.
You lean forward slightly, squinting at it, then laugh under your breath.
“Aww… I was so cute.”
You tilt your head, smiling at your younger self for a second longer before glancing back toward the camera.
“Okay—get ready for a scene from Season 1, Chapter 1: The Vanishing of Will Byers.”
The screen cuts to static for a split second and then snaps back.
Now you’re no longer alone.
You’re wedged comfortably on the couch between Finn and Gaten, with Caleb sitting on the other side of Gaten. Your body is angled slightly into Finn, his arm naturally resting around your shoulders like it’s second nature. Your head leans lightly against him as everyone settles in.
On screen, the familiar opening scene begins, the boys gathered around the table, deep into their D&D campaign.
Gaten immediately perks up, pointing at the screen.
“This was the first day of filming.”
Caleb leans forward, grinning. “No way.”
“Yeah,” Gaten nods proudly.
Caleb watches the screen for a second longer before suddenly groaning. “Also—can we talk about how I said Demogorgon?”
He mimics his younger voice, exaggerating it. “Deh-MO-go-gon.”
Gaten bursts out laughing. “Bro, what was that?”
You laugh too, your shoulders shaking slightly as you press closer into Finn without really thinking about it.
“That’s actually so bad,” you say, covering your mouth.
On screen, your younger self appears, glasses slightly oversized, hair… questionably styled.
You squint at it, then groan.
“Oh my god. Why did they do that to me?”
Caleb smirks. “They really said let’s give her the worst haircut possible.”
“And the glasses!” you add, gesturing dramatically. “Those are criminal.”
Finn glances down at you, smiling softly. “I liked it.”
You turn your head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” he insists, a little too quickly.
Gaten immediately jumps in. “Yeah, he’s the only one.”
You gasp, mock-offended, and reach across Finn to try and smack Gaten.
“Hey!”
He leans back, dodging you easily. “Violence! On camera!”
Finn laughs quietly beside you, tightening his arm around your shoulders just slightly as you settle back into place.
On screen, the D&D scene continues.
Gaten watches it fondly before turning to the group. “Have any of you guys actually played D&D? Like, for real?”
You shake your head. “Nope.”
“Same,” Caleb adds.
Gaten looks almost offended. “What? It’s literally perfect for actors.”
You tilt your head. “How?”
“It’s all improv,” he says, gesturing like it should be obvious. “You’re playing characters, making choices, building a story—”
Finn nods. “He’s right, actually.”
You shift slightly, tucking yourself a little closer into Finn’s side, your head resting more comfortably against him now.
“So we’ve basically been training for it our whole lives,” you say.
“Exactly,” Gaten points at you. “Finally! Someone gets it.”
You grin, then suddenly burst into laughter again.
Everyone looks at you.
“What?” Caleb asks.
You point at the paused screen, Finn’s younger self frozen mid-expression.
“Finn—your face.”
Finn leans forward to look, squinting.
“Oh no.”
“It’s like you just realized taxes exist,” you add, laughing harder.
Gaten snorts. “That’s the exact moment his childhood ended.”
Finn shakes his head, smiling despite himself, while you’re still laughing, leaning into him like you might fall over.
The room feels easy. Familiar. Like no time has passed at all.
The scene rolls on for a moment longer before the camera cuts back to the four of you on the couch.
Finn shifts slightly, glancing between the screen and the others. “I think at that age it was just really fun… meeting people, you know?”
Gaten nods immediately. “Yeah kids are just good at making friends fast. Like, you don’t overthink anything.”
He turns to Caleb with a grin. “We literally met and just started wrestling.”
Finn snorts. “You guys still wrestle.”
You burst out laughing at that, the sound coming out louder than you expect.
Gaten points at Finn like he’s been exposed. “Okay but back then we were really into it.”
“Play fighting constantly,” Finn adds.
“We never actually got into a fight though,” Gaten says quickly.
Caleb nods, then smirks. “We used to smack each other before scenes.”
You shoot upright instantly. “Oh my god they had to tell you to stop, didn’t they?”
Gaten groans. “Yes. Because apparently our faces were getting too red.”
Caleb leans back, crossing his arms. “Both of our faces.”
That sends all of you laughing again.
You drop forward, half hiding your face in Finn’s neck as you laugh, your shoulders shaking. Finn laughs too, instinctively tightening his arm around you, pulling you a little closer as if to steady you.
On screen, the scene continues in the background.
Gaten gestures toward it. “I still play D&D, by the way.”
Then he turns to Finn and immediately rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately, so does this guy.”
Finn shrugs. “I’ve played like… two small campaigns.”
“That counts,” Gaten insists.
Finn smiles a little. “Honestly, if you’re not the DM, it’s fun. You just have to stay committed to the bit.”
“Exactly!” Gaten says. “It’s literally just playing pretend. It’s so fun.”
The episode plays on, the sound filling the room softly.
Finn glances over at Caleb. “Do you remember your stomach was messed up this day?”
As he talks, your hand absentmindedly drifts down, fingers lightly playing with his, tracing over his knuckles without even realizing it.
Caleb groans. “Yes. I remember.”
Gaten immediately cuts in, deadpan. “What’s new?”
“Shut up,” Caleb shoots back, but he’s smiling.
He leans forward slightly, watching the screen. “Season 1 was just crazy.”
Gaten nods, then adds, “Caleb always had stomach issues.”
Finn laughs softly. “We were all just nervous.”
Gaten leans back into the couch, smirking. “Yeah, this is exactly the commentary people were hoping for.”
You lift your head slightly from Finn’s shoulder, still smiling, the easy, chaotic energy of it all settling comfortably around you as the episode continues to play.
*****************
The screen fades and cuts back to you alone on the couch again.
You’re curled slightly into the corner now, one leg tucked under you as a new scene plays, Carly sitting at her desk, scribbling in her journal, rambling about how Mike's the best boyfriend and maybe, just maybe, he’ll ask her to the Snow Ball.
You smile instantly when you see it.
“Oh my god… I loved this era of Carly.”
Your eyes stay on the screen, soft with nostalgia.
“My parents were really into theatre when I was growing up,” you continue, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “They tried so hard to get me into it and I just… I was not a stage actor.”
You laugh a little at yourself.
“So then they were like, okay, let’s try screen acting instead. And I just loved it.”
You glance briefly toward the camera, smiling.
“I was ten when I got the role,” you add. “And then I turned eleven toward the end of filming Season 1.”
Your smile grows a little more genuine, a little more personal.
“I remember the boys threw me this tiny surprise party on set,” you say. “And they got me, like… little jewelry from Claire’s.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head.
“They were, like, twelve and thirteen. It was very on brand.”
On screen, Carly keeps writing, completely absorbed in her thoughts.
You watch her for a second before speaking again, quieter now.
“I love that she was literally just a girl who liked a boy in Season 1.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“It felt really real. Like… genuine.”
A small smile tugs at your lips.
“Because at that age, I was the exact same.”
You pause, then squint at the screen again.
“…My hair was better though.”
*****************
The screen flickers again before cutting to a new setup.
Now you’re sitting beside Joe, both of you angled toward the screen as a heavier scene begins to play: Season 1, Chapter 4: The Body.
On screen, Steve is yelling, his voice sharp and uneven, like he’s trying to keep control but can’t quite hold it together. There’s fear underneath the anger, but it comes out wrong, too loud, too harsh. Carly stands near her bed, shoulders hunched, tears already streaming down her face as she tries to get words out between shaky breaths. The room feels small, tense. Steve paces back and forth, running a hand through his hair, knocking into things without really meaning to, books shifting, something clattering to the floor, as his frustration spills over. Carly keeps trying to explain, her voice cracking, stepping forward like she wants him to understand, but every attempt just seems to make him louder, more overwhelmed, until it all crashes together in a messy, emotional spiral.
“Will’s dead,” she says, voice breaking. “They found his body.”
Steve stops.
But he doesn’t apologize.
He just leaves.
The clip ends, and there’s a brief silence before you exhale softly.
“That was one of the scenes I was most excited for as a kid,” you admit, a small smile tugging at your lips.
Joe turns to you, surprised. “Really?”
You nod. “Yeah. I thought if I was like” you gesture dramatically, “look at me, I can screen cry the Duffers would be so impressed.”
Joe laughs, shaking his head. “That’s so funny, because I was dreading it.”
You glance at him. “You were?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I did not want to yell at you. You were like… a baby.”
You scoff, nudging him lightly. “Okay.”
“No, seriously,” he insists. “You were ten. And tiny.”
You laugh a little, but nod. “That’s fair.”
He leans back slightly, thinking. “And we didn’t even really know each other yet.”
“Yeah,” you agree. “We had met at the table read, but that was it.”
You glance back at the screen. “That was the first scene we ever shot together.”
Joe winces a little. “Great introduction, me just screaming at you.”
You grin. “Set the tone.”
He shakes his head again, more thoughtful now. “Steve was such an ass in Season 1.”
You nod, softer this time. “Carly was really naive, though.”
There’s a small pause before you add, “But it makes their development so much better.”
Joe hums in agreement, then says, “For someone who didn’t get much real love from his parents… he should’ve taken what he could get from Carly.”
You glance at him, expression softening a little at that.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “He should’ve.”
*****************
The camera fades back in a little later, and this time it’s just you and Finn on the couch again.
The setup feels quieter than before. No teasing from Gaten, no side comments from Caleb, just the low hum of the studio lights and the soft sound of the episode playing through the speakers.
You’re curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked up underneath you, while Finn sits beside you with one arm stretched along the back cushion behind your shoulders. The two of you look comfortable in that effortless way that only comes from years of knowing each other.
On screen, Will’s funeral is unfolding.
Everyone is dressed in black, Hawkins draped in grief. Rain clouds hang heavy overhead, and the whole town feels muted, slowed down by loss.
The camera follows the Wheelers moving through the crowd, Karen’s hand resting lightly on Mike’s shoulder as they make their way toward the service.
Then the scene shifts.
Carly spots Mike standing a little apart from everyone else, shoulders tense, eyes distant. He looks exhausted in that quiet way grief makes people look, like he’s somewhere else entirely.
You watch your younger self cross the grass slowly, expression soft but conflicted.
Carly’s hands twist together nervously before she speaks.
“I just…” she starts, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I know now.”
Mike turns to her, confused. “Know what?”
Carly swallows hard, blinking back tears that have been threatening since she walked over.
“That you don’t really like me anymore.”
The words land softly, but they still hit hard.
Mike’s face falls immediately.
“No! Carly, that’s not—”
He steps toward her, trying to explain, already panicking in that earnest middle school way where everything feels like the end of the world.
But before he can say much more, Mrs. Wheeler turns sharply from where she’s standing nearby.
“Michael,” she says in a low, warning voice. “Not now.”
The scene freezes there, Mike caught mid-protest, Carly trying not to cry, funeral guests blurred in the background.
For a second, neither you nor Finn say anything.
Then Finn lets out a quiet laugh under his breath and shakes his head.
“That was Mike’s first heartbreak.”
You turn to him slowly, eyebrows lifting in disbelief before you break into a laugh.
“Please,” you say, smiling. “It was a middle school relationship, not like a ten-year marriage.”
Finn looks at you like you’ve just deeply insulted him.
“That doesn’t matter.”
His tone is so sincere it makes you laugh harder.
“You are so dramatic,” you tell him.
“And you’re heartless.”
You grin, settling more comfortably into the couch as you glance back at the screen.
“Mike was in love with El at that point anyway,” you say. “I bet he didn’t even care that much.”
Finn immediately nudges your side with his elbow, offended on Mike’s behalf.
“Oh, he cared,” he says.
You look over at him, amused. “You’re taking this really personally.”
“Because you dumped him at his best friend’s funeral.”
That gets you laughing again.
“Okay, but we knew Will wasn’t dead,” you say, gesturing toward the paused screen.
Finn gives you a look that says absolutely not.
“That doesn’t make it better,” he says, fighting a smile. “Imagine being Nancy. Or Mike’s mom. You have no clue what’s actually happening, your family is grieving, and then suddenly you overhear Mike getting dumped by his middle school girlfriend during the funeral.”
You stare at him for a second as the image fully forms in your head.
The sheer absurdity of it hits you all at once.
You completely lose it.
A startled laugh bursts out of you so suddenly you double over, nearly sliding off the couch entirely. You clutch at Finn’s arm on instinct, your whole body shaking as the laughter takes over.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, breathless. “That’s so horrible.”
Finn finally starts laughing too, though he’s trying to keep his composure.
“I’m just saying,” he says, deadpan through a smile. “Pretty brutal move.”
That only makes it worse.
You fall fully into him this time, collapsing against his side as you laugh into his shoulder. Your forehead presses into the fabric of his shirt while you try and fail to pull yourself together.
Finn’s arm comes around you automatically, steadying you without even thinking about it. His hand slides over your upper arm in a slow, absentminded motion, thumb brushing lightly back and forth.
“You’re awful,” you mumble into his shoulder, still laughing.
He glances down at you, amused. “You did it.”
“That was Carly.”
“That was still you.”
You lift your head just enough to glare at him, though you’re smiling too hard for it to land.
“She was going through something.”
Finn nods solemnly. “Clearly.”
On screen, little Mike’s devastated face is still frozen in place, somehow making the whole thing even funnier.
You catch sight of it again and immediately break, laughter spilling out all over again as you drop your face back into Finn’s shoulder.
Finn just shakes his head, smiling to himself as he keeps you tucked against him, the two of you dissolving into the kind of easy laughter that only comes from remembering something ridiculous years later.
*****************
The screen fades to black before the camera cuts back in.
This time, it’s just you.
You’re sitting alone again, curled into the same corner of the couch, but the energy feels quieter now. More reflective. The studio lights cast a soft glow across the room, and for a second, you don’t say anything, you just watch the screen.
On it, Carly is breaking down.
She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, shoulders shaking as tears spill over faster than she can wipe them away. It’s not the kind of crying where someone tries to stay composed, it’s full-body, messy sobbing, the kind that comes when everything you’ve been holding in finally catches up with you.
Her hands are covering her face, breath hitching between every attempt to calm down, and there’s something painfully young about it. She looks overwhelmed in a way that feels achingly real.
You watch for a second, then let out a small laugh through your nose.
“That crying was real, by the way.”
You glance at the camera, already smiling a little at the memory.
“I had a really bad day that day.”
You shake your head fondly.
“And Gaten had made fun of my costume glasses right before this scene.”
You laugh properly now, covering your mouth for a second.
“So I was already upset. Then we started filming, and I just… lost it.”
You gesture toward the screen where little Carly is still crying hard.
“And everyone was like, ‘wow, she’s so talented.’”
You grin, a little sheepish.
“But really, I was just very sad.”
You pause, then shrug lightly.
“It was okay, though.”
A softer smile crosses your face.
“Finn and the boys got me an ice pop after because Caleb’s mom had brought some to set.”
You laugh at the memory.
“They were all so confused why I was still crying after they called cut.”
You mimic a concerned voice. “‘Wait… are you okay?’”
That makes you smile wider.
“They were so sweet.”
Your eyes drift back to the screen.
“Honestly, season one was nothing.”
You shake your head slowly.
“Carly should’ve been thankful all she had was brother problems and boy problems.”
You let out a breath, half amused.
“She had no idea what was coming. No monsters. No near-death experiences. No killer alternate dimension stuff.”
A small smile tugs at your mouth.
“No Vecna trauma. Just heartbreak and family issues.”
You grow quieter then, your gaze lingering on the scene.
“I think this breakdown was really about her realizing what love was supposed to look like.”
You glance at the screen again, watching young Carly cry.
“She saw how much Nancy cared about Mike. How hard Jonathan was searching for Will. How much siblings were willing to do for each other.”
You tuck your knees in a little closer.
“And I think it hit her that Steve…” you trail off, smiling faintly in disbelief. “Steve probably wouldn’t have done the same for her then.”
You shake your head, somewhere between amused and exasperated.
“Freaking Steve.”
The camera lingers on your face for a beat, fond, nostalgic, a little emotional, before the screen cuts to black again.
*****************
A second later, it fades back in.
This time, you’re back on the couch with Finn.
The two of you are sitting close again, shoulders brushing as the final stretch of the season plays out on the screen in front of you. The room is dimmer now, lit mostly by the glow of the episode.
On screen, everything is chaos.
The school hallway is wrecked, lights flickering overhead as Eleven stands facing the Demogorgon. Mike is yelling for her, panic and heartbreak all over his face.
You watch for a second before your lips twitch.
Then, in a dramatic voice, you lean forward and mimic young Mike perfectly.
“EL! WHERE ARE YOU?!”
You immediately break into a grin and add, under your breath, “in another life…”
Finn stares at you in disbelief for half a second before he starts trying, and failing, not to laugh.
“Oh my god,” he mutters, shaking his head.
You’re already giggling, clearly too pleased with yourself.
“That TikTok ruined this scene for me forever.”
Finn lets out a helpless laugh and, without warning, reaches over and covers your mouth with his hand.
“Stop,” he says, smiling despite himself. “You’re evil.”
Muffled against his palm, you let out an offended noise.
He raises an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face. “Don’t.”
Naturally, you do the first thing that comes to mind.
You lick his hand.
Finn jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.
He stares at you, genuinely shocked.
You sit there looking unbearably smug.
“Oh my god,” he says, wiping his hand on his jeans dramatically. “What is wrong with you?”
You shrug, grinning. “You started it.”
He just shakes his head, still laughing under his breath as he looks back at the screen.
The scene plays on, Eleven disappearing, Mike devastated, the boys stunned into silence.
Your smile softens a little.
“That was actually really sad to film,” you say quietly.
Finn glances over at you.
You tuck one leg up beneath you, gaze still fixed on the screen.
“None of us knew if we were coming back,” you admit. “Or if anyone would even watch it. We had no idea it was going to become what it became.”
The room goes still for a second.
You look at the younger versions of yourselves on the screen, so small, so earnest, completely unaware of what was ahead.
“It kind of felt like goodbye,” you say softly.
Finn’s expression shifts, something fond and teasing creeping in.
“Aww,” he says. “That’s cute. You were gonna miss me so much.”
You turn to him slowly, eyebrows lifting.
“Who said you?”
Finn gives you a flat look.
A beat passes.
Then you crack.
“Kidding, kidding.”
You hold your hands up in surrender before glancing at the camera and giving it a quick wink.
Finn shakes his head, trying not to smile.
“You’re unbelievable.”
As the final scene wraps up and the credits begin to roll, you sit back against the couch with an exaggerated sigh.
Then, with full commitment to the bit, you lift your hand and pretend to wipe a tear from your eye.
“What a beautiful, devastating masterpiece,” you say solemnly.
Finn snorts beside you.
The camera lingers on the two of you for one last second, you looking fake emotional, Finn smiling like he knows you too well, before the video fades out for good.
20,453 Comments
hawkinshellfireclub the hand lick took me OUT 😭 finn’s face was priceless
Thedufferscamera someone give the editor a raise because this whole rewatch special was PERFECT
finnswolf they are so obviously together and somehow still not confirming it. i feel insane.
demogorgon_defeated joe saying she was ‘a baby’ during that screaming scene 🥺 my heart
mikewheelerslawyer NOT HER BREAKING UP WITH MIKE AT WILL’S FUNERAL AND LAUGHING ABOUT IT YEARS LATER
wheelerbasement this is the kind of cast chemistry you literally cannot fake
steddiesleftsock finn defending mike’s first heartbreak like it was a divorce settlement 😭
eggosandicedpops the ice pop story after her real crying scene… stop that’s so sweet
scoopsahoyemployee joe and her talking about steve/carly development actually made me emotional
Hey there! I’ve never requested anything before so Idk how this really goes 😅.
I really enjoy your I do I do I do Finn series and would love to see more of it!! Could you write more of the earlier years of their relationship or maybe there wedding (perhaps both.. 👀)?
The reader and Sadie’s dynamic is so great and I just adore the way you write her and Finn.
Thanks xx
Wedding fic is in progress! But here is a fic from the earlier years of their relationship (around season 3)!
Summary: Stars of Stranger Things 3 Finn Wolfhard and (Y/N) (L/N) join NYT Cooking to bake a cake
Warnings/Tags: They can't not touch each other, your honor they are in love, they are not slick, Finn can't help himself, the people are onto them
*****************
The studio kitchen carried that polished, almost artificial sweetness, like powdered sugar dusted over lemon zest, something bright and sharp sitting underneath the warmth. The counters gleamed under the overhead lights, every surface spotless enough to reflect movement. Bowls were arranged just a little too perfectly, ingredients pre-measured in neat glass dishes. It didn’t feel like a kitchen people actually used, it felt like a version of one, carefully built for watching.
Very New York Times Cooking.
You stood just off-center of the island, turning the apron over in your hands for the third time without really realizing it. The fabric was stiff, freshly pressed. Everything about this place felt stiff. Controlled.
Then Finn walked in beside you.
And just like that, the room felt smaller.
Your heartbeat picked up instantly, sharp, quick, like your body had decided something important was happening before your brain could catch up. You kept your eyes down, pretending to focus on the apron, smoothing a wrinkle that wasn’t there.
He bumped his shoulder lightly into yours, casual as anything. “You look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” you said immediately, too fast, too defensive.
There was a beat.
Then that grin spread across his face. That specific grin, the one that always meant he’d noticed something you hadn’t meant for him to.
“You’re terrible at lying.”
You nudged him back, softer this time, more instinct than reaction. “Shut up.”
Across the set, a voice cut through the low hum of crew chatter.
“Alright guys, we’re rolling in thirty!”
Something shifted between you instantly.
It was subtle, so subtle no one else would catch it, but it was there. Shoulders straightened. Expressions softened into something more neutral, more practiced. Not distant, never that, but contained. Like stepping into roles you both knew by heart.
The version of you that laughed easily, teased lightly, never lingered too long.
Even if your pinky brushed his for half a second as you both reached for the same spot on the counter.
Even if his eyes stayed on you just a beat longer than they should have.
“Ready?” he asked, quieter now.
You looked at him then, really looked, just for a second. His expression had shifted too, something softer tucked behind the ease.
“Yeah,” you said.
A pause stretched between you.
Then, under your breath—
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
His smile widened, slow and deliberate. “No promises.”
“Hi, I’m Finn—”
“And I’m—”
You both stopped at the exact same moment, voices overlapping, timing completely off.
There was a split second of silence then you both laughed.
Real laughter. Unplanned.
“Sorry go,” Finn said, gesturing toward you, stepping back half a pace.
You shook your head, still smiling as you glanced toward the camera. “No, no, you had it.”
“Okay,” he said, resetting with a small inhale, posture straightening just enough. “Hi, I’m Finn Wolfhard.”
“And I’m (Y/N) (L/N),” you added smoothly, turning toward the counter like you hadn’t just tripped over each other. “And today we’re baking a cake with New York Times Cooking.”
“Which,” Finn said, picking up his apron and holding it up like it might betray him, “we are definitely qualified to do.”
You snorted softly. “Speak for yourself.”
“Wow,” he said, hand coming to his chest in mock offense. “No faith in me at all.”
“None,” you replied sweetly, not even looking at him.
Somewhere off to the side, a camera operator let out a quiet chuckle.
You slipped your apron over your head, the motion easy, familiar. The fabric fell into place without a second thought, and you reached behind your back, tying the strings in one quick, practiced motion.
Done.
You glanced over and immediately paused.
Finn was… struggling.
The strings were uneven, one hanging longer than the other, twisted around themselves in a way that made absolutely no sense. He turned slightly to one side, then the other, like the solution might reveal itself if he just looked at it from a different angle.
It didn’t.
“Finn,” you said, laughter slipping into your voice despite yourself. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve got it,” he insisted.
He did not have it.
You gave him exactly two more seconds before stepping closer. “You do not have it.”
“I do...okay, wait...hold on—”
“Stop moving,” you said, already reaching for the strings. “Just turn around.”
He did.
Immediately.
Too immediately.
Like it wasn’t even a question. Like his body already knew what to do before he thought about it.
Like this had happened before.
You stepped in behind him, closer than you’d meant to at first, your fingers brushing lightly against the small of his back as you gathered the strings. For a split second, just a fraction, your hands stilled.
Then you forced them to move again, looping the fabric together, pulling it into place.
“Hold still,” you murmured.
“I am holding still,” he replied.
“You’re swaying.”
“I’m not swaying.”
“You’re literally leaning into me.”
“I’m not—”
He cut himself off.
Because he felt it.
Because he realized.
He was leaning into you.
Not subtly, either. His weight had shifted back completely, like he’d forgotten the cameras, the crew, the lights, like he’d slipped into something automatic. Comfortable. Familiar.
Like this wasn’t a set.
Like this was private.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the knot.
“Finn,” you hissed under your breath.
“Right sorry—” he started.
But instead of stepping forward he leaned back more.
Fully.
All his weight dropping against you without warning.
You let out a sharp yelp, completely caught off guard. “Finn—!”
“Sorry!” he laughed, the sound bright and completely unapologetic, even as he stayed there for half a second longer than necessary, clearly fighting a grin.
“Get OFF—”
“I’m just testing the knot—”
“YOU ARE NOT—”
Finally, he pushed himself upright again, turning to face you with an expression that was far too innocent to be believable.
His eyes gave him away instantly, bright, amused, thrilled with himself.
You shoved his shoulder, a laugh breaking through before you could stop it. “You’re so annoying.”
“You said help,” he shrugged, like that explained anything.
“I did not say body slam me on camera!”
He leaned in slightly then, just enough to close the space between you again, his voice dropping low, quiet enough that it didn’t carry past you.
“You liked it.”
Heat rushed to your face immediately, quick and impossible to hide.
“I hate you,” you shot back.
He didn’t even hesitate.
“Mm,” he hummed, eyes still on yours, something softer threading through the teasing now. “No you don’t.”
*****************
“Alright,” you said, clapping your hands together lightly as you turned back toward the counter, the sound sharp in the bright, controlled quiet of the set. “First step we’re making the batter.”
The words came out smooth, practiced, like you hadn’t just been shoved, like your heart hadn’t done that stupid little jump a second ago.
Beside you, Finn reached for an egg.
And then, without any warning at all, he tossed it a few inches into the air.
A small, clean arc.
Effortless.
You didn’t even flinch.
He caught it perfectly, of course, fingers closing around it like he’d done it a thousand times, and turned his head toward you, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction. Approval. Surprise. Something.
You just stared at him.
Flat.
Completely unimpressed.
“…what?” he said, brows lifting.
You blinked once. Slowly.
He let out a scoff, shaking his head as he cracked the egg against the side of the bowl. “My talents are constantly taken for granted.”
“Those are not talents,” you said, already reaching for a measuring cup, your tone calm and dismissive.
“They absolutely are.”
“They’re not useful.”
“They’re cool.”
“They’re not—”
“Guys,” someone off camera cut in, laughter threading through their voice, “we’re gonna start questions.”
The shift was immediate.
Not dramatic, never dramatic, but precise. You both straightened just slightly, shoulders easing into something more open, expressions settling into that familiar balance: relaxed, engaged, just the right amount of playful.
Camera-ready.
“First question,” another voice called. “What were some difficulties taking on the new character arcs this season?”
Finn picked up another egg, pointing it vaguely in your direction. “Do you want to—”
“You go,” you said easily, already turning back to the ingredients, giving him the floor without even looking up.
“Alright,” he shrugged, tapping the egg against the bowl and cracking it open. “Um yeah, I think for me it was just kind of hard switching from playing Mike as, like, the usual sarcastic, kinda sassy version of himself to someone who’s a lot more… I don’t know terrified? And protective.”
His voice slipped into something more thoughtful as he spoke, less performative, more real.
While he talked, you glanced up toward the shelving behind the counter.
The cake pan sat on the top shelf.
Of course it did.
You stepped closer, rising up onto your toes, fingers stretching toward it. Your fingertips brushed the edge.
Not enough.
Finn’s voice continued in the background, steady, mid-thought“uh, and I think that shift was—”
He glanced over.
Paused.
“uh, one sec—”
Before you could even process what he meant, his hands landed on your hips.
Warm. Firm. Familiar.
And then he lifted.
Not high, not dramatic, just enough. A quick, easy boost that brought you the extra few inches you needed.
You grabbed the pan immediately. “Got it! Thank you—”
You set it down on the counter, already turning back like nothing had happened.
Except he didn’t move.
At all.
His hands were still there.
Resting lightly at your hips, like that was the most natural place for them to be. Like he hadn’t even thought about it.
“And yeah,” he continued, seamlessly picking his sentence back up as if nothing was out of the ordinary, “it was also really fun getting to explore a lighter version of Mike again like, he actually gets to have fun this season.”
You blinked once, staring straight ahead for half a second before letting out a quiet scoff, glancing sideways at him.
“Mike Wheeler? Having fun?”
He laughed, the sound quick and genuine, and finally his hands dropped as he nudged your shoulder. “Okay, wow rude.”
“Am I wrong?” you shot back, arching a brow.
“Yes,” he said immediately. “You are.”
“Debatable.”
You stepped aside, gesturing toward the bowl with a small flick of your hand. “Go ahead, mix away.”
“Thank you,” he said, overly formal, like you’d just granted him some incredible honor, already reaching for the whisk.
You leaned back against the counter slightly, arms loosening at your sides as the next question came through.
“And what about you?” the interviewer asked. “What was it like for your character this season?”
You nodded once, thinking for a moment, your fingers absentmindedly scooping flour into a measuring cup.
“Yeah so, Carly goes through… a lot this season.”
Finn’s mixing slowed just slightly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough that you did.
“I feel like everyone else kind of gets that two or three-episode stretch where they’re all just having fun and being kids again,” you continued, leveling off the flour carefully. “And Carly… does not get that.”
A ripple of quiet laughter passed through the crew.
You smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes this time.
“She’s kind of constantly dealing with the consequences of her own choices,” you added, your voice softening, more thoughtful now. “And I think that was the hardest part, playing someone who is the cause of her own problems but refuses to acknowledge it.”
The whisk moved slower.
More deliberate.
“And also just being so isolated from everyone else,” you said, pouring the flour into the bowl. “Because her arc kind of separates her from the group for a while, and that was... yeah, that was tough.”
There was a brief pause as you exhaled, shaking your head slightly, brushing it off.
“But it was really fun,” you added quickly. “Just… emotionally exhausting.”
“Yeah,” Finn said quietly beside you, not joking this time, not playing anything up. Just… honest. “You had a rough season.”
You glanced at him, a small smile forming—softer than before.
“I really did.”
For a second, everything stilled.
No jokes.
No performance.
Just something quieter sitting between you.
Then—
Tap.
You felt it before you saw it.
You turned your head slightly.
Finn was closer now, whisk still in one hand and a small streak of batter on his finger.
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
“Finn.”
He smiled.
Slow. Predictable. Dangerous.
And before you could even lift a hand to stop him he tapped the batter right onto the tip of your nose.
You froze.
Completely still.
“…did you just—”
Behind the camera, someone groaned. “Oh no.”
Finn was already stepping back, shoulders shaking as he tried—and completely failed, not to laugh.
You stared at him for exactly one second.
Then reached into the bowl.
Two fingers.
A small scoop of batter.
“Don’t,” he warned, though the grin on his face made it clear he had no intention of actually stopping you.
You stepped forward anyway.
“Don’t—”
Too late.
You dabbed it right onto his cheek.
Right under his eye.
There was a beat.
A single, perfect second of silence.
“Children, no—” someone called from behind the camera.
And that was it.
You both broke.
Completely.
Laughter hit all at once, loud, uncontrollable, shoulders shaking, the kind that made it impossible to stand still. Finn wiped at his cheek, smearing it worse, laughing harder because of it.
“You started it!” he managed between breaths.
“You literally put it on my face first!”
“Yeah, but—”
“You’re so annoying—”
“Worth it,” he shot back instantly, grinning like he meant it.
And for a second , just a second you didn’t think about the cameras.
Or the crew.
Or the way you were supposed to act.
You just looked at him and forgot to be careful.
*****************
“Alright,” you said, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind your ear as you stepped toward the counter again, the warmth from the oven still lingering in the air. “The cake is finally out of the oven—”
The pan sat in front of you, golden and slightly uneven on top, the edges just a little darker than the center. Not perfect, but real. Something you’d actually made, not just assembled.
Finn leaned in beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched as he bent slightly to look at it, like he was inspecting a masterpiece. “and now we’re gonna decorate the best Stranger Things cake ever made.”
You let out a short laugh under your breath. “Okay, first of all, we are not putting Mike Wheeler on a cake.”
He blinked at you, genuinely taken aback. “What? Why not?”
“That is rude to whoever gets that slice.”
Finn’s head snapped toward you, hand coming to his chest like you’d personally attacked him. “Wow.”
“I’m just saying,” you shrugged, reaching for the frosting bags lined up neatly beside the cake. “They don’t deserve that.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered and then, without warning, his arm hooked around you, pulling you sharply into his side.
“Finn—!”
Before you could even react, his fingers dug into your sides.
Tickling.
Relentless.
“Stop—stop—!” you burst out, laughter hitting instantly as you twisted, trying to pry his hands away. “Finn, I swear—!”
“You’re disrespecting Mike—!” he shot back, completely committed, laughing as you tried to squirm free.
“I stand by it—!”
You shoved at his chest, finally breaking his grip, stumbling back a step as you caught your breath, glaring at him through a grin you couldn’t quite hide.
“You’re the worst.”
He didn’t even try to defend himself.
Just stood there, grinning, entirely too proud.
You grabbed a frosting bag with a little more force than necessary, turning back to the cake.
From somewhere behind the cameras, a voice called out, “Okay, next question. What’s it like growing up with your costars?”
Your hands stilled for just a second.
The shift was quieter this time.
Less obvious.
You glanced at Finn briefly, just a quick look, before answering.
“It’s…” you started, your voice softer now, less performative, as you handed him one of the frosting bags without quite meeting his eyes. “It’s kind of like you’re hired to work with built-in best friends.”
Finn took it from you, his expression changing, subtle, but real. The teasing edge softened into something more thoughtful.
You turned back to the cake, focusing on the edge as you began piping a careful line of frosting along the border, steadying your hand.
“I mean...these are my people,” you continued. “I’ve met my best friends on this show.”
Your voice carried something warmer now, something that didn’t need exaggeration.
“Sadie’s gonna be the maid of honor at my wedding someday,” you said with a small smile, eyes on the cake, “and the future aunt to my kids. And I literally can’t imagine my life without Gaten’s stupid jokes, or the impossible situations Noah gets himself into, or Millie’s advice, or Caleb’s like over-the-top laugh—”
Your hand slowed slightly.
Just for a second.
“…or Finn.”
The word hung there.
Light.
But not insignificant.
There was a brief pause.
Then Finn let out a quiet laugh beside you, just enough to break it. “Oh just me? No specific trait or anything?”
You shot him a look, immediate, grounding yourself again. “You’re pushing it.”
He grinned, leaning a little closer as you reached over to take the frosting bag back from him, your fingers brushing his for half a second.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s all I get?”
“You’re lucky you got mentioned,” you muttered, turning back to the cake, focusing a little harder than necessary on smoothing out a line of frosting.
He shook his head, still smiling, but when he glanced toward the camera again, his tone shifted.
“I think it’s just… really nice,” Finn said, quieter now, more grounded. “Having people around you who actually understand what you’re going through every day.”
He rested his hand on the counter near yours, close but not touching.
“Like balancing work and life, and all the stress that comes with it,” he continued. “And also just… having people to hang out with when it gets to be a lot.”
You glanced at him then, softer.
“Yeah,” you said.
A small pause settled in, comfortable, not empty.
Then, casually—
“Who’s your favorite person to hang out with?”
Finn didn’t even hesitate.
“Gaten.”
You slowly turned your head.
Very slowly.
Your expression flattened as you lifted the frosting bag in your hand holding it up like a weapon.
“Finn.”
His eyes widened instantly, the realization hitting all at once. “okay, okay you, obviously you!”
You narrowed your eyes, unmoving.
“It’s you,” he said quickly, hands lifting in surrender, laughter slipping into his voice. “It’s always you.”
You held his gaze for another second.
Measuring.
Then lowered the bag.
“Good answer.”
He let out a dramatic exhale, dropping his hands. “That was a test, wasn’t it?”
“Mm,” you hummed, already turning back to the cake, continuing your work like nothing had happened.
For a moment, he just watched you.
Quiet.
A small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, softer than before.
Then he leaned in slightly, just enough that only you could hear—
“I'm still putting Mike on the cake.”
You didn’t even look at him. “Touch that frosting and I will end you.”
A beat.
Then, under his breath—
“…worth it.”
*****************
You stepped back from the counter, exhaling softly as you took in the finished cake.
It wasn’t perfect—one side of the frosting was slightly thicker than the other, and the piping along the edge wavered in one corner—but it looked good. Real. Yours.
A small, satisfied nod tilted your head.
“Okay,” you said, clapping your hands once, the sound light but decisive. “The cake is officially done—”
Finn leaned in beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours as he squinted at it like he was about to deliver a professional critique. His head tilted slightly, lips pressing together in exaggerated concentration.
“It’s…” he paused, dragging it out just enough to be annoying, “…actually kind of impressive.”
You didn’t even try to hide your smile. “I know.”
A beat.
“I carried.”
He turned his head slowly, blinking at you. “Wow.”
“And now,” you continued smoothly, already reaching for a fork, “it’s time for the taste test.”
“Finally,” Finn muttered under his breath, grabbing his own fork like he’d been waiting for this part the entire time.
From behind the camera, the interviewer jumped in, voice bright. “Alright, last question. Where do you want to see your characters after this season?”
You didn’t hesitate.
“Happy.”
It came out immediate. Simple.
Finn glanced at you.
You shrugged slightly, already cutting into the cake, the fork sliding through the soft center. “Like just… happy and not stressed for five minutes,” you added. “That would be nice.”
There was something honest in it, something that didn’t need to be dressed up.
He nodded beside you. “Yeah.”
A small pause.
“I think I want Mike to spend more time with the bros.”
You froze.
Your fork hovered mid-air.
Then you quickly looked down, pressing your lips together as a laugh tried to escape.
The interviewer caught it instantly. “The bros?”
Finn nodded, completely serious. “Yeah.”
That did it.
A small, choked sound slipped out of you as you turned slightly away, shoulders tightening as you tried, and failed, to keep it together.
“Can you clarify what you mean by that?” the interviewer asked, already amused.
Finn opened his mouth and paused.
You looked at each other.
And then, perfectly in sync—
“…no.”
The word landed at the exact same time.
You shook your head, smiling now, giving in. “We can’t.”
“Yeah,” Finn added, nodding once like it was completely reasonable. “Spoilers.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the crew.
You scooped up a bite of cake onto your fork, the frosting catching slightly on the edge and without thinking you leaned a little toward Finn, holding it out.
It wasn’t planned.
Wasn’t for the camera.
Just instinct.
Easy. Familiar.
Something you’d done a hundred times without realizing it.
At the exact same moment Finn lifted his own fork and took a bite.
You froze.
Completely still.
Your arm still extended.
Fork hovering in the space between you.
Your mouth slowly dropped open.
He chewed, glancing over at you like nothing was wrong. “What?”
You didn’t say anything.
Just stared.
Then his eyes flicked down.
To your hand.
To the fork.
Paused.
“Oh, wait—”
Realization hit all at once.
He swallowed quickly. “Wait... was that... was that for me?”
Silence.
You kept staring at him, expression flat. Unimpressed. Devastatingly so.
“Wait! No! Hold on—” he scrambled immediately, already turning back toward the cake, cutting into it too fast. “I’ll get another bite—”
“Nope,” you said instantly, pulling your fork back toward yourself.
“Come on—”
“Nope. No, I’m done.”
“I didn’t know!”
“You should have known,” you shot back, already lifting the fork and eating the bite yourself, pointedly.
He groaned, half-laughing. “That was another test, wasn’t it?”
You didn’t even answer.
Just turned, already stepping away from the counter, shaking your head—but smiling anyway.
“Wait! No!” Finn hurried after you immediately. “I’m sorry! I didn’t realize!”
“Too late!”
“I’ll redo it! We can redo it—!”
“You had one chance!”
Laughter broke out behind you, crew members fully giving up on staying quiet now as the two of you moved off your marks.
“(Y/N)! seriously!” he called, trying to catch up, one hand still holding the fork like that might somehow fix things.
You didn’t turn around.
Didn’t slow down.
The smile on your face gave you away anyway.
The screen cut to black mid-chase, his voice fading out behind you—
“I’ll feed you cake this time!”
300,783 Comments
Byersbasement.mp4 y/n: heartfelt speech about friendship Finn: GATEN
Finnslonglegs NOT HIM LEANING INTO HER LIKE THAT WAS MUSCLE MEMORY???
hawkinsfilmclub ‘it’s always you’ SIR?????
Ynsupremacy HER FACE DROPPING??? I FELT THAT
Someonesgettingfired mike wheeler catching strays the entire video
Iknewitiknewitiknewit the way they touch each other is NOT platonic i’m sorry
Strangerthingsedits_ THAT WAS THEIR ONE ROMCOM MOMENT AND HE FUMBLED
Offcameramoments HIM CHASING HER OFF SET IM DEAD
Justfriendsyeahok idc what anyone says they are NOT just friends
Viralvidvault HANDS. ON. HIPS. IN A NYT VIDEO?????
Norecoveryfromthis the way he IMMEDIATELY put his hands on her hips… yeah okay they’re not beating the allegations
Maxmayfieldsleftshoe SADIE MAID OF HONOR?? FUTURE AUNT?? THAT’S SO CUTE
Fumbledthecake the ‘i’ll feed YOU cake this time’??? SIR?????
Summary: Normally you'd be there at every concert Finn has. However seeing as you are literally halfway across the country it's almost impossible for you to get back for this one. Or is it?
Warnings/Tags: Finn Wolfhard is a simp, fluff, they are in love, Sadie and Reader are besties, bros before hoes, Finn has separation anxiety, reader doesn't fold easy.
*****************
Sadie’s apartment in New York was somehow both spotless and completely lived-in at the same time, like she’d cleaned in a panic five minutes before chaos settled back in.
The counters were clear, the floors practically shining—but the coffee table told the truth. Scripts were fanned out in messy stacks, pages bent and highlighted, sticky notes peeking out at odd angles. A half-finished iced coffee sat dangerously close to the edge, condensation dripping slowly onto a pile of handwritten notes, the ink already starting to blur.
From the bedroom, her laptop echoed faintly, muffled voices, the rhythm of an interview in progress, Sadie’s voice occasionally cutting through, bright and polished in that way she only sounded when she was “on.”
You, meanwhile, were very much off.
Cross-legged on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, you stared down at your phone with a growing smile as it buzzed nonstop in your grip.
Finn 💙:
you’re seriously not coming??
You huffed out a quiet laugh, already typing back.
You:
finn, i told you already 😭 i’m staying here for sadie’s showyou’re gonna do amazing, i promise
You barely had time to reread it before the typing bubble popped up again.
Finn 💙:
it’s not the same if you’re not here
Your smile softened a little at that but then another message came through.
And another.
And another.
Your phone buzzed so fast it practically vibrated in your hands.
You opened it without thinking and immediately burst out laughing, your head tipping back against the couch.
Pickles was a blur. Mid-spin, paws scrambling against the hardwood, his entire body twisted in a chaotic circle like he’d fully committed to something he no longer understood.
You:
PLEASE 😭😭 he’s still doing that??
Finn 💙:
he’s been at it for 5 minutes straighti think he forgot why he started
You could practically hear his voice in it, equal parts concerned and entertained.
Another buzz.
You tapped it open and froze.
Finn stood in front of a mirror, shirtless, hair a mess like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. The lighting was definitely intentional, the angle just right, his expression caught somewhere between casual and very much not.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Finn 💙:
come home early?
You stared at it for half a second longer than you meant to then snorted, shaking your head as you sat up a little straighter.
“Oh, absolutely not,” you muttered to yourself.
You flipped your camera, pulling your hood up a little more, keeping your expression completely flat as you raised your middle finger and snapped a picture.
You:
no ❤️
The reply came so fast it made you laugh again.
Finn 💙:
that’s so meani’m being vulnerable
You rolled your eyes, smiling anyway, thumbs hovering like you might say something softer but the bedroom door creaked open before you could.
Sadie stumbled out like she’d just survived something, headset half falling off her neck, her expression somewhere between exhausted and amused.
Without a word, she made a beeline for you and collapsed directly on top of you.
“Hi,” she groaned into your shoulder, all of her weight suddenly yours.
“Oof—hi,” you laughed, shifting just enough to keep your phone from getting knocked out of your hand. “You good?”
“No,” she mumbled. “I’ve answered the same question twelve different ways.”
You smiled, adjusting slightly so she could settle more comfortably. “That’s showbiz, Sades.”
She huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, then squinted one eye open, peering lazily at your phone.
“Is that Finn?”
“Yeah,” you said, glancing back at the screen. “He’s being dramatic because I’m not in Vancouver.”
Sadie lifted her head just enough to give you a flat look. “He’ll survive,” she said. “I’m literally carrying a Broadway show on my back right now.”
You grinned. “I told him he’d do great.”
“Good,” she muttered, already sinking back down into you like a weighted blanket. “Because he will.”
There was a pause.
Then she shifted slightly, turning her head to look up at you, suddenly serious despite the exhaustion.
“Important question.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Can we order takeout before my next interview?”
You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. Absolutely.”
Her eyes lit up just a little. “Something greasy. Emotional support food.”
You were already unlocking your phone again. “Say less.”
She let out a satisfied hum, closing her eyes again as you scrolled through options, your shoulder pressed comfortably against hers.
Your phone buzzed.
You glanced down.
Finn 💙:
i miss you
That one hit differently.
Your smile softened, something quieter settling in as your thumbs slowed.
You:
i miss you toonow go rehearse before pickles steals your spotlight
You hit send, lingering on the screen for just a second longer than you needed to.
Across the country, you could picture it, the way his mouth would tilt into that small, private smile, the way he’d shake his head a little like he always did when you got the last word.
Outside, the city moved like it never stopped, distant horns, muffled voices, the low hum of New York threading through everything.
And here, in the middle of it all, takeout on the way, your best friend dozing on your shoulder, your fiancé missing you from across the country, everything felt full.
Busy.
A little chaotic.
But exactly where it was supposed to be.
*****************
The city still buzzed outside, even from the quiet of the car parked along the curb.
New York never really stopped, it just softened around the edges. The sharpness of the day dulled into something warmer, neon signs glowing instead of glaring, conversations blending into a steady hum that filtered faintly through the glass. Streetlights stretched in long reflections across the window beside you, blurring every time a car passed.
You sank into the backseat, legs tucked slightly to the side, still riding that lingering, electric high that came after watching something that good.
Sadie had been unreal.
It was still sitting in your chest, the way the audience had gone completely silent at certain moments, the way she held the stage like it belonged to her, like it always had. You could still hear her voice if you thought about it hard enough.
Your phone buzzed in your hand, pulling you back.
The screen lit up.
Finn 💙:
did it finish??how was she??did you cry??
You smiled instantly, thumbs already moving.
You:
yesyesand maybe 🙄
You hovered for a second, debating whether to say more. Something about how proud you were, how he would’ve loved it, how she owned that stage but before you could type another word, the car door swung open.
Cold air rushed in for half a second before Sadie slid into the seat beside you, breathless, glowing, alive in a way that only came after a performance like that. Her hair was slightly out of place, makeup still perfect but softened, like the night had worn into it just a little.
You immediately sat up, turning toward her fully.
“You were insane,” you said, the words coming out fast and genuine. “Like actually insane. That was incredible.”
She smirked, not even pretending to be modest as she shut the door behind her. “I know.”
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “No, I’m serious…Sadie, that last scene? I—”
But she didn’t let you finish.
Instead, she reached into her bag and, without ceremony, tossed two folded pieces of paper straight into your lap.
They hit you lightly, barely making a sound.
You blinked, thrown off. “Uh… what?”
You picked them up slowly and everything in you stalled.
“…Sadie.”
She leaned back into the seat like she hadn’t just casually dropped a bomb into your night, one arm draped over the backrest, completely at ease. “Yeah?”
You looked up at her, then back down at the papers, then back at her again.
“These are plane tickets.”
“Mmhm.”
You flipped one over like maybe it would say something different on the back. It didn’t.
“To Vancouver.”
“Correct.”
You stared at her, your brain trying, and failing, to catch up. “You have a show tomorrow.”
She waved a hand dismissively, like that detail meant absolutely nothing. “Cancelled.”
You let out a confused laugh. “What? Why??”
“They want to repaint the walls or something,” she said with a shrug, like she hadn’t even bothered to question it. “The theater’s being dramatic.”
You narrowed your eyes slowly, turning toward her fully now. “Sadie…”
She sighed, dragging a hand down her face like she’d been expecting this reaction. “Okay, fine.”
There it was.
She reached for her phone, unlocking it and scrolling for a second before turning the screen toward you.
“Your fiancé,” she said pointedly, “has been blowing up my phone.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“He literally texted me—” she cleared her throat slightly, reading with exaggerated seriousness, “‘please release her, i’m suffering.’”
She looked up at you, completely deadpan.
“His words.”
You stared at her for half a second and then laughed, the sound breaking out of you before you could stop it.
“That is so dramatic,” you said, shaking your head, even as your chest warmed at the thought.
“Exactly,” Sadie said, locking her phone again and tossing it back into her bag. “So.”
She gestured lazily toward the tickets still in your hands.
“I decided we should just go. We pop into Vancouver, you watch his show, he stops whining, everyone wins.”
You blinked again, still not fully grounded in reality. “Sadie…”
“Hmm?”
“Does he know?”
Her grin shifted—something a little sharper, a little more mischievous.
“Nope.”
You stared at her. “Sadie—”
But she was already leaning forward, tapping lightly on the divider between you and the driver.
“Airport, please.”
The driver nodded immediately, no questions asked, and the car pulled smoothly away from the curb, merging into the late-night traffic like this was just another routine stop.
You sat there for a second, the movement barely registering.
The tickets were still in your hands.
Vancouver.
Finn.
Your heart started to pick up—slow at first, then faster, something bright and giddy building in your chest.
“…He’s going to lose his mind,” you muttered, more to yourself than anything.
Sadie settled back into her seat again, completely satisfied, arms crossed loosely as she watched your reaction.
“Good,” she said. “That’s the goal.”
Your phone buzzed again.
You glanced down.
Finn 💙:
i’m serious i might actually die if you don’t come
You stared at the message for a moment longer this time.
Then you looked up, out the window, watching the city blur past—lights streaking, people moving, everything shifting as you were suddenly, very literally, on your way out of it.
A slow grin spread across your face.
You (typing):
you’ll live
You hit send, biting back a laugh as you locked your phone and leaned your head back against the seat.
Beside you, Sadie was already half-watching you, clearly pleased with herself.
And somewhere across the country he had absolutely no idea what was coming.
If only he knew.
*****************
The second you and Sadie stepped off the plane in Vancouver, you were already laughing.
It started as a quiet thing, just a shared look, a barely-contained grin, but the second you caught sight of each other in the reflection of the airport windows, it was over.
Because you both looked ridiculous.
Oversized hoodies swallowed your frames, sunglasses sat firmly on your faces despite the thick gray clouds overhead, and your face coverings were pulled up just enough to make it obvious you were trying not to be obvious.
You tugged at your hood, lowering your voice as you glanced around. “This is so unnecessary.”
Sadie didn’t even look at you. “No,” she said calmly, adjusting her own sunglasses like she was on a runway. “This is commitment to the bit.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling anyway, biting back another laugh as you followed her through the terminal.
It didn’t take long to grab your bags, and once you stepped outside, the cool Vancouver air hit your face, grounding you just enough to remind you.
You were actually here.
Your heart gave a small, anticipatory flip.
You pulled out your phone, dialing quickly.
Your driver picked up almost immediately.
“Hey—” he started.
“We need a ride,” you cut in, keeping your tone casual, like this was completely normal.
There was a pause. “You’re…what?”
You bit your lip, glancing at Sadie, who was watching you with a grin.
“Just send the car,” you added quickly. “Please.”
Another pause.
Then, slowly, “…okay?”
You hung up before he could ask anything else.
Sadie raised an eyebrow. “Subtle.”
“Shut up,” you muttered, but you were already smiling again.
Your regular driver didn’t question it, he never did. Twenty minutes later, you were sliding into the backseat, the doors closing with a soft thud as the city began to move around you.
Vancouver at night felt different than New York.
Quieter. Cooler. The lights weren’t as overwhelming, but they stretched wider, reflecting off glass and pavement in long, calm streaks as the car moved through the streets.
You leaned your head lightly against the window, watching it all blur past, your excitement building in slow, steady waves.
“Do you think he’s nervous?” you asked after a minute, voice softer now.
Sadie shrugged beside you, completely at ease. “He’s always nervous.”
You huffed a small laugh. “True.”
“That’s why this is gonna be fun,” she added, glancing at you.
You turned your head, meeting her look and grinned.
She wasn’t wrong.
By the time the car pulled up near the venue, your heart was beating a little faster. The familiar sight of it, the lights, the people gathered outside, the low hum of anticipation, made everything feel suddenly very real.
You reached for the door and Sadie stopped you, catching your sleeve.
“Wait.”
You looked at her. “What?”
She nodded toward a bar right next door.
“Pre-show drink.”
You blinked. “Sadie—”
“Trust me.”
You hesitated for half a second.
Then sighed. “Fine.”
Five minutes later, you were both walking back out, drinks in hand, already laughing again. Something about the absurdity of the situation making everything feel lighter, easier.
Instead of heading around back like you normally would, Sadie steered you straight toward the front entrance.
Right into the crowd.
You pulled your hood down a little more instinctively, but no one was really paying attention. To everyone else, you were just two girls heading into a show.
Almost.
The security guard stepped forward immediately, hand lifting slightly. “Hey, I’m gonna need—”
You pulled your face covering down.
There was a split second where his brain clearly tried to catch up.
Recognition hit.
And then he broke into a laugh.
“Oh my god go ahead,” he said, stepping aside quickly. “Didn’t see anything.”
“Thank you,” you grinned, already pulling your covering back up as you slipped past.
Inside, the venue buzzed with energy.
It wrapped around you instantly, voices overlapping, laughter, the low hum of music filtering through the speakers. That pre-show electricity sat in the air, thick and buzzing, like everything was just waiting to snap into place.
You didn’t hesitate.
Neither of you did.
You made your way straight through the crowd, weaving between people until you reached the front right up near the stage, close enough that you could see every detail.
Perfect.
“This is so much better than backstage,” Sadie whispered, leaning in.
“Way better,” you agreed, taking a sip of your drink, your eyes already scanning the stage.
Everything was set.
Instruments in place. Lights dimmed just enough.
Your heart started to race again faster now, sharper.
Sadie bumped your shoulder lightly. “You’re excited.”
“I’m always excited,” you shot back automatically.
“Mhm,” she hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Sure it has nothing to do with your fiancé?”
You nudged her back. “Shut up.”
She laughed, looping her arm through yours, her shoulder pressing warmly against yours as you both leaned into the barrier.
Time passed in that easy, giddy way, conversation drifting in and out, laughing over nothing, watching people filter in around you. Every now and then, your hand would drift to your phone, instinctively checking it and every time, you’d stop yourself.
No texting him.
No ruining it.
At one point, Sadie leaned closer, her voice lower now, more conspiratorial.
“When he sees you,” she said, “he’s actually going to short-circuit.”
You didn’t look at her.
Your eyes stayed fixed on the stage, your smile small but steady.
“Good,” you said softly.
The lights shifted slightly.
It was subtle but you felt it immediately.
The energy in the room tightened, conversations dimming just a little, attention pulling forward like a collective breath being held.
You straightened without thinking, your fingers tightening slightly around your cup.
Your heartbeat synced with the anticipation, quick and bright in your chest.
Any second now.
Any second.
And he had absolutely no idea.
*****************
The lights hit, the crowd roared and then he walked out.
It was instant.
That shift in the room, the way the energy snapped tight and then exploded all at once, the sound of hundreds of voices rising up around you, and there he was, stepping into it like he belonged there.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Finn looked exactly how you knew he would, like he’d been pacing backstage five minutes ago, like he’d almost talked himself into being calm and then failed halfway through. His guitar hung easily over his shoulder, his fingers already adjusting against the strings out of habit. His hair fell into his eyes just slightly, messy in that way that meant he’d run his hands through it too many times instead of actually fixing it.
Familiar.
Comforting.
Your chest tightened a little at the sight of him.
Sadie leaned into you, already grinning. “There he is.”
“Shh,” you whispered, even though you were smiling just as much, your eyes not leaving him for a second.
The first song kicked in, loud, fast, electric.
The crowd surged with it instantly, bodies moving, voices rising, the energy bouncing right back to him like it always did. And he caught it, settled into it, the nerves still there but blending into something else, something alive.
You stayed right where you were at the barrier, half dancing when the rhythm pulled you into it, half just… watching him.
Every little thing.
The way his shoulders loosened as the song went on. The way he stepped closer to the mic without thinking. The way he smiled, quick, almost accidental, when the crowd got louder in the chorus.
You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it until you were standing here again.
Second song.
The energy shifted just a little, still loud, still bright, but smoother now. You took a sip of your drink without looking away, your heart still beating a little too fast.
Still nothing.
Sadie bumped into you, laughing as she swayed along, fully committed now, her movements just exaggerated enough to make you roll your eyes.
“Careful—” you started, glancing at her hat as it tilted.
Too late.
It slipped right off, disappearing somewhere behind you.
You both froze.
Just for a second.
Onstage, Finn glanced out into the crowd and then did a double take.
You saw it happen in real time.
The split-second confusion.
The pause.
Recognition hitting like a spark.
His eyes locked onto Sadie first.
Of course they did.
And then they moved, quick, searching, scanning the space around her like he already knew, like he had to know.
You instinctively ducked your head a little, even though it was completely useless. You were right there. Front row. No hiding.
His gaze found you.
And everything shifted.
Just for a second, so fast no one else would’ve noticed, but you did.
The nerves disappeared.
His expression softened, something almost disbelieving flickering across his face, like his brain hadn’t quite caught up with what he was seeing.
You felt your breath hitch again.
And then he looked away.
Just like that.
Finishing the song like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just spotted you in the crowd when you were supposed to be across the country.
“Uh oh,” Sadie whispered beside you, barely holding in her laughter.
“You’re the worst,” you muttered under your breath, even as your smile gave you away.
By the time the third song ended, the energy in the room had only built higher, people louder, closer, completely locked in.
Finn stepped up to the mic during the break, adjusting it slightly, his fingers tapping lightly against the stand.
There was a small, knowing smile pulling at his lips now.
“So—” he started, glancing back out into the crowd.
Your stomach flipped.
“I think we’ve got some very special guests here tonight.”
Your grip tightened around your cup without you realizing it.
He lifted a hand, pointing lightly. “Sadie, I see you.”
The reaction was immediate.
The crowd shifted, heads turning, people craning to figure out where she was, murmurs rippling outward.
She pulled her disguise off completely, sunglasses gone, hood down, giving an exaggerated little wave like she’d been waiting her entire life for this exact moment.
You shook your head, already laughing and then before you could react, she reached over and yanked your hat clean off your head.
“Sadie—!”
Too late.
The attention snapped to you just as quickly.
You barely had time to process it before Finn placed a hand over his chest, feigning shock.
“Oh—(Y/N)’s here too?”
You covered your face for a second, laughing despite yourself, the heat rushing up your neck.
“They’re—uh,” he continued, clearly trying to sound casual and failing miserably, “they’re my costars.”
The crowd didn’t care.
They cheered anyway, louder, if anything.
You dropped your hand, shaking your head, smiling helplessly while Sadie leaned into you, entirely too pleased with herself.
Then Finn moved.
He crossed the stage slowly, like it was nothing, like this wasn’t deliberate at all, and sat down right at the edge, close enough that you could see the small details again. The way his fingers adjusted on the guitar. The way his foot tapped lightly against the stage.
Close enough that it felt like everything else faded back.
His leg brushed against your arm.
It was small.
Barely anything.
But it grounded you instantly.
Your breath caught again, softer this time, as you looked up at him.
He glanced down, quick, subtle, And there it was.
That look.
Soft. Steady. Entirely yours.
Like the rest of the room didn’t exist for a second.
Then he looked back out, adjusting his grip on the guitar slightly.
“This one’s… new,” he said.
The shift was immediate.
The first notes were quieter. Slower. Different.
You recognized it instantly.
Not because you’d heard it before, but because you hadn’t.
Because you knew him well enough to hear what it was anyway.
Your chest tightened.
Beside you, Sadie went completely still, her earlier energy settling into something quieter, like even she understood this wasn’t a moment to interrupt.
Finn kept his focus forward, eyes mostly on the crowd, but his leg stayed where it was, lightly pressed against your arm.
Constant.
Grounding.
Like he needed the contact just as much as you did.
No one else noticed.
To them, it was just another song.
A softer one. A new one.
But to you, it was everything.
Every late-night call. Every “I miss you.” Every quiet moment stretched across time zones. Every piece of distance that had felt too big until now.
He was singing it out into a room full of people but it was yours.
And you couldn’t stop smiling, even as your eyes burned a little, your vision blurring just slightly because somehow, impossibly, he’d taken missing you and turned it into something this beautiful.
And now you were right here to hear it.
*****************
Backstage was chaos in the best way, crew members weaving past each other with practiced urgency, someone calling out cues that didn’t matter anymore now that the show was over, laughter spilling out in bursts from different corners. The air felt warm, thick with adrenaline and sweat and that post-performance high that hadn’t settled yet.
It wrapped around you the second you stepped past the curtain.
You barely got your bearings, barely took two steps—
“Hey—”
And then he was there.
It wasn’t even a hesitation.
Finn crossed the space like he’d been waiting for this exact moment since he walked offstage, like the second he was allowed to move, he did, and he didn’t slow down when he reached you.
His arms wrapped around you instantly, lifting you clean off the ground before you could react.
A full, tight, breath-stealing bear hug.
You let out a surprised laugh that got cut off halfway as he squeezed you closer, your feet leaving the floor as he buried his face into your neck, holding you there like he needed to feel you, like seeing you hadn’t been enough.
“You’re here—” he breathed, the words rushed, disbelieving, warm against your skin.
You didn’t even get the chance to answer.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still on you, like he wasn’t risking letting go, his eyes scanning your face quickly, searching, making sure.
And then he kissed you.
Hard.
Immediate.
There was no buildup, no hesitation, just everything at once. Weeks of missing you, late-night calls that ended too soon, messages that didn’t quite cover it, every bit of it poured straight into that kiss.
You kissed him back just as fast, your hands fisting into his shirt, grounding yourself in something solid as the noise around you faded into nothing but background blur.
For a second, it felt like you were the only two people in the room.
Behind you—
“Ugh. Disgusting.”
Sadie’s voice cut straight through it, loud and perfectly timed.
Finn didn’t even flinch.
Didn’t pull away.
Didn’t acknowledge her in the slightest.
He just lifted one hand blindly behind him and flipped her off without breaking the kiss.
You laughed against his mouth, the sound soft and breathless, which only made him chase your lips again, this time slower, but somehow just as intense, like he was making up for lost time.
“I’m getting you a drink,” Sadie continued, already walking off like she’d said her piece. “You’re literally a sweaty mess.”
He made a vague sound of acknowledgment that didn’t resemble actual words, still very much focused on you.
“Finn—” you tried, laughing as you pressed a hand lightly to his chest, attempting to create even an inch of space.
“No,” he mumbled immediately, like the idea itself offended him.
He dropped his forehead against your shoulder again, arms tightening around you like a reflex.
“Absolutely not,” he added, voice muffled. “You don’t just show up out of nowhere and expect me to be normal about it.”
You smiled into his hair, your fingers automatically slipping into it, brushing it back gently. “You seemed pretty normal on stage.”
“That was survival,” he said without missing a beat. “This is a crisis.”
You huffed out a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, his hands still resting at your waist, like even this small distance was pushing it.
“How are you here?” he asked, softer now, but no less intense. “Like—actually how?”
You tilted your head slightly, nodding toward the direction Sadie had disappeared in. “That would be her.”
His expression shifted, eyes narrowing just a little as realization set in, slow and inevitable.
“…So,” he said carefully, “maybe I should’ve been nicer to her.”
Right on cue—
Splash.
Finn jolted as an ice-cold bottle of water hit his chest, the impact making him flinch back a step.
“Yeah,” Sadie said flatly, reappearing like she’d been summoned. “You should’ve.”
You laughed immediately as he looked down at himself, then back up at her, genuinely offended. “That was aggressive.”
She ignored him completely, stepping right past him and hooking an arm around yours, pulling you snugly into her side.
“You’re lucky I shared,” she added, giving him a pointed look.
Finn straightened instantly, like that sentence alone snapped something back into place. “She’s my fiancée.”
Sadie didn’t even blink. “Doesn’t matter. She’s my best friend first.”
You snorted, caught between them, your head tipping slightly toward her shoulder.
Finn just shook his head, dragging a hand through his already messy hair, somehow making it worse. “I’m gonna go clean up before I pass out,” he muttered, though his eyes were still on you.
He stepped forward again almost immediately, like he couldn’t quite help himself, and pressed a quick kiss to your lips.
Softer this time.
Slower.
But it lingered, just for a second longer than it needed to.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he added quietly, his voice dipping just enough that it felt like it was meant only for you.
You smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Wait in the car,” he said, like he needed to hear you agree, like he needed the promise.
Before you could even answer, Sadie groaned loudly. “Oh my god, okay, lover boy, go shower.”
She grabbed your arm without hesitation and started pulling you backward.
Finn immediately reached for you again. “Hey—”
“Nope,” Sadie said firmly, already dragging you toward the exit. “You smell like regret and stage lights. Fix it.”
You laughed, letting yourself be pulled along, twisting just enough to look back over your shoulder.
He was still standing there.
Watching you go.
A little dazed.
A little breathless.
And smiling in that soft, completely undone way that made your chest tighten all over again. Like you’d just flipped his entire world upside down in the best possible way.
Mike Wheeler x Reader, Max Mayfield x ExBestFriend! Reader(platonic)
Summary: Three years ago, life felt easier because fear, pain, and laughter were shared among friends. Now, a year after drifting apart from Max, distance and silence have replaced what used to feel effortless. At a Fourth of July gathering, you’re forced back into her presence, surrounded by fireworks, noise, and familiar faces. Overheard conversations and small interactions reveal old misunderstandings and unspoken tension, leaving you unsure how to act. When Max notices something’s missing between you, the air shifts, charged with questions neither of you knows how to answer. The past year of assumptions suddenly feels fragile and uncertain. (6.7K)
Warnings/tags: friendship angst, reader and max are shit at communication, Lucas is caught in the crossfire, mike and reader have a past that is vaguely mentioned, mike and reader are cute, reader is a hard ass, max tries, holly is a cutie pie, fire works, both of them miss their friendship, everyone needs to stop being hard asses.
Part 1!
· ─ ·✶· ─ ·
The sliding door shuts behind Max with a sharp, hollow sound that cuts through the laughter like something misplaced.
It doesn’t belong with the music, or the easy chatter, or the clatter of plastic forks against paper plates. It lingers for a second longer than it should—just long enough to make a few people glance toward the house before the moment dissolves and everything resumes.
You don’t look up.
You keep your eyes on your plate, on the smear of dressing you’ve been absentmindedly pushing around with your fork. The food has gone cold. You hadn’t really tasted any of it to begin with.
Beside you, Mike shifts slightly, his arm still hooked along the back of your chair. It’s a familiar weight, steady and grounding on any other day. Tonight it just makes you feel… pinned. Like if you stay here much longer, the pressure in your chest is going to crack something open in front of everyone.
For a few seconds, the table is quieter than it should be.
Then Dustin clears his throat loudly, like he physically cannot tolerate silence.
“Anyway,” he says, gesturing dramatically with his fork, “as I was saying—”
Conversation stutters back to life.
Steve rolls his eyes, Nancy smiles politely, Holly starts asking someone about fireworks again. The world keeps moving.
But you don’t.
Because now the house feels like it’s pulling at you.
You don’t even realize you’ve stopped fidgeting until Mike nudges your shoulder lightly.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod too quickly.
“Yeah. Just—” Your voice feels too loud, so you drop it. “Gonna throw this out.”
You don’t wait for him to respond. If you do, you might stay. And if you stay, you might keep pretending everything is fine.
The grass is cool under your shoes as you step away from the table, the sounds of the party fading just slightly with each step. The closer you get to the house, the more the air changes—the smell of charcoal replaced by something softer, cleaner, like dish soap and lemonade and the faint trace of whatever candle Mrs. Wheeler burned earlier.
The sliding door handle is cool under your fingers.
You hesitate.
Just for a second.
Then you pull it open.
The noise from outside spills in with you—music, laughter, the distant crackle of someone testing fireworks too early—but it dulls the second the door slides shut behind you.
Inside, it’s quieter.
Not silent, but muted. Like the walls are holding everything at arm’s length.
The kitchen light hums faintly overhead. The counter is cluttered—half-empty bowls, crumpled napkins, condensation rings from forgotten cups. A stack of plates leans precariously near the sink, and the trash can is already overflowing with red-white-and-blue paper scraps.
You step forward, your movements slower now, more careful. The plastic plate in your hands crinkles softly when your grip tightens.
Then... voices.
Not from the kitchen.
From just beyond it.
You freeze mid-step.
“…you didn’t have to do that,” Lucas is saying, his voice low, but it carries in the quiet space. There’s tension in it—controlled, but there. “You could’ve just let it go.”
Max laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s short, sharp, like something breaking instead of something funny.
“Let it go?” she echoes. “Yeah, because that’s worked out so well so far.”
The sound of her voice does something immediate and visceral to you.
It’s been a year.
A year of silence, of secondhand information, of pretending her name doesn’t hit differently than everyone else’s.
And still—your body reacts before your brain can catch up. Your chest tightens, your pulse stumbles, your fingers curl harder into the edge of the plate.
You don’t move.
You should.
You should make noise, step forward, announce yourself like a normal person.
Instead, you stay exactly where you are. Half-shadowed in the kitchen, just out of sight from the hallway where their voices are coming from.
“No reason?” Max continues, and now there’s something underneath the words—something raw, something that hasn’t been sanded down by time the way you thought it might be. “She quit something that mattered to her and no one thought to tell me. How is that not a reason?”
Your breath catches.
Lucas exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Max…”
“No, seriously,” she presses, and you can hear movement now—pacing, maybe, or her shifting her weight restlessly. “How long has it been? A year? And I don’t know anything. Not that, not—anything.”
Each word lands heavier than the last.
“Everyone else does,” she says. “You do. Mike does. And I’m just—what? The last one to find out everything?”
“That’s not fair,” Lucas says, softer now.
“Isn’t it?”
The question hangs there, unanswered.
You stare at the edge of the counter, at a tiny crack in the laminate that you’ve never noticed before. Your focus narrows to it like it might anchor you in place.
Because if you let yourself think about what she’s saying—about the fact that she sounds upset, not indifferent, not distant—
You’re not sure what that means for everything you’ve been telling yourself.
“She didn’t tell us either,” Lucas says after a moment. “Not really. We just… figured it out.”
Max huffs out a breath. You can picture it without seeing—arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes flashing.
“Great,” she mutters. “So I’m not just out of the loop, I’m completely irrelevant. Awesome.”
Something twists painfully in your chest.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It’s what it feels like.”
There it is again.
That word.
Feels.
Not logic. Not anger. Something softer underneath all of it. Something you haven’t let yourself consider in a long time.
You swallow, your throat dry.
Lucas shifts—there’s a faint creak of the floorboards.
“Then talk to her,” he says.
Simple.
Too simple.
The sentence echoes in the small space between them.
You feel it echo in you, too.
Max lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
“Yeah,” she says. “Because she’d love that.”
“She might.”
“She won’t.”
There’s no pause. No hesitation. The certainty in her voice is immediate.
And it hits you harder than anything else so far.
Lucas doesn’t back down.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
A beat.
You can almost feel the tension stretching, tightening, threatening to snap.
“She moved her chair away from me, Lucas,” Max says, her voice dropping lower now. Quieter. Not as sharp—but somehow worse. “She won’t even look at me half the time. What exactly am I supposed to do with that?”
Heat rushes to your face.
You hadn’t thought—
No, that’s a lie.
You had thought about it. You just hadn’t thought about how it looked from her side.
Lucas’s voice softens.
“Maybe she thinks you don’t want her to.”
There’s a pause.
A real one this time.
Long enough that your heart starts beating louder again, filling the silence.
“That’s not—”
Max cuts herself off.
The unfinished sentence hangs in the air like something fragile and exposed.
You shift your weight slightly, and the floor beneath you creaks.
Your entire body goes rigid.
The voices stop.
For one terrifying second, you think they heard you.
You don’t breathe.
You don’t move.
“She doesn’t want me to,” Max says finally.
Her voice is quieter now.
Not sharp.
Not defensive.
Just… certain.
But it’s different than before.
Thinner. Like something she’s holding onto instead of something she fully believes.
Lucas exhales slowly.
“You don’t know that.”
Max doesn’t answer right away.
When she does, her voice is even softer.
“I’m not doing this again.”
The words land heavy.
“I’m not gonna go up to her just so she can shut me down,” she continues. “I’m not—” She stops, like the rest of the sentence gets stuck somewhere on the way out. “I’m not putting myself out there like that if she’s just gonna… walk away.”
Your chest tightens so sharply it almost hurts.
Because that’s it.
That’s the exact same thought that’s been sitting in the back of your mind all night.
All year.
A long silence follows.
Then Lucas, quiet and honest:
“You’re both doing the same thing.”
Max lets out a small, tired laugh.
“Yeah,” she says. “Well. That’s working out great for us, isn’t it?”
Neither of them sound like they find it funny.
The quiet stretches again.
It feels heavier now. Settled. Like everything that needed to be said has been said—but none of it fixed anything.
You take a slow step back.
Then another.
Your hands feel unsteady as you lower the plate into the trash can, easing it in carefully so it doesn’t make noise. The plastic crinkles anyway, too loud in your ears.
You pause.
For a second, just one, you think about stepping forward.
About turning the corner.
About saying something.
Anything.
But your feet stay rooted.
Because if you step into that hallway, this stops being something overheard and becomes something real.
And you’re not ready for that.
Not when everything you thought you understood just shifted.
Not when her voice doesn’t match the version of her you’ve been holding onto for a year.
You turn instead.
Quietly. Carefully.
You cross the kitchen, your steps light against the tile, and reach for the sliding door again.
The moment it opens, the outside rushes back in.
Music. Laughter. The hum of voices layered over each other. The distant pop of a firework somewhere too early in the night.
It’s almost jarring.
Like stepping into a different world.
You let the door slide shut behind you, sealing the quiet back inside.
For a moment, you don’t move.
You just stand there on the edge of the deck, the warm air wrapping around you, the glow of string lights blurring slightly as your eyes lose focus.
Your mind is still inside.
Still caught on her words.
She thinks you don’t want her to talk to you.
You think she doesn’t want you to.
And somehow, in the space between those two things, an entire year slipped by.
You swallow hard, forcing your expression back into something manageable before turning toward the table again.
The party looks the same.
Feels the same.
No one knows anything shifted.
But it did.
You almost stepped into that conversation.
Almost said her name.
Almost changed something.
Instead, you walked away.
Again.
· ─ ·✶· ─ ·
By the time the sky deepens into that rich, in-between blue—where the last traces of sunlight bleed out and the first real stars start to show—the backyard has transformed completely.
The table has been abandoned in favor of the grass. Lawn chairs are dragged into uneven rows, blankets spread out in soft, overlapping patches, corners pinned down with sneakers and coolers and whatever else people can find. The string lights overhead hum faintly, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that makes the whole yard feel smaller, closer, like the world has shrunk down to just this space for the night.
There’s a restless anticipation in the air.
People talk, but not fully. Conversations drift, break off halfway through, pick up somewhere else. Every few seconds someone glances up at the sky like they might miss something if they don’t.
You hover at the edge of the deck for a moment, arms loosely crossed, watching it all settle into place. The noise from earlier has softened—not quieter, exactly, but more contained. Focused.
Your mind, unfortunately, is not.
It’s still caught on the kitchen. On everything you heard. On the way Max’s voice had sounded—frustrated, yes, but underneath that… something else.
Something that doesn’t fit the version of this you’ve been holding onto.
You don’t have time to spiral.
“Hey!”
Holly barrels into you before you can react, small hands grabbing onto your wrist and tugging with absolute confidence.
“Come sit with me,” she insists, already pulling you off the deck. “We need the best spot or we won’t see anything!”
“I think the sky is kind of… everywhere,” you try, but there’s no real resistance behind it.
Holly ignores you completely.
“This one’s the best,” she declares, dragging you toward a blanket spread right in the middle of the yard—close enough to the house that the porch light still spills over the edge, but open enough for a clear view of the sky.
You let her pull you down, settling onto the blanket with a quiet exhale. The grass underneath is uneven, slightly cool through the thin fabric, grounding in a way you didn’t realize you needed.
Holly doesn’t sit next to you.
She climbs directly into your lap.
“Okay,” she says, like she’s organizing something very serious, adjusting herself so she’s facing forward, back pressed comfortably against your chest. “Now we can see everything.”
You blink down at her.
“…You just wanted a better seat.”
She tilts her head back to look at you, completely unashamed. “Obviously.”
Despite everything, a small smile tugs at your mouth.
“Of course.”
You wrap one arm loosely around her middle to steady her, the other resting against the blanket beside you. She’s warm, solid, grounding in a way that keeps you from drifting too far into your own head.
For a second, it’s enough.
“Oh, good. You found a spot.”
Mike drops down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He leans back on one hand, stretching his legs out in front of him, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who definitely just orchestrated something.
You narrow your eyes at him.
He doesn’t look at you.
“Hi,” you say slowly.
“Hi,” he replies, just as casual.
You open your mouth to question it—
“Max!”
Holly’s voice rings out, bright and unstoppable.
Your entire body goes still.
“Come sit here!” she calls, twisting slightly in your lap so she can wave her arms dramatically. “There’s room!”
There isn’t.
Not really.
But that’s never stopped Holly before.
You don’t turn.
You don’t need to.
You hear the footsteps in the grass. Slower than everyone else’s. Measured.
Your heartbeat picks up immediately, loud and uneven in your chest.
There’s a pause just behind you. A hesitation that stretches for a second too long.
Then the blanket dips.
Max sits down on your other side.
Closer than before. Closer than at the table. Close enough that Holly’s leg brushes lightly against her knee, close enough that the space between you is no longer really space at all.
Holly beams, satisfied.
“See?” she says proudly. “Perfect.”
Perfect.
You stare straight ahead.
Mike shifts slightly beside you, subtle but deliberate. His arm stretches out behind you again, resting along the back edge of the blanket, not quite touching you but close enough to box you in.
It’s not obvious.
But you feel it.
You’re not moving.
“Fireworks should start any minute,” he says, glancing up at the sky.
You don’t respond.
Because all of your attention is pulled sharply to the left.
Max adjusts slightly beside you, settling her weight, her hand brushing briefly against the blanket near your thigh before pulling back. The movement is small, almost nothing, but it sends a ripple of awareness straight through you.
You don’t look at her.
But you know exactly where she is.
The line of her shoulder. The way she sits a little stiffly, like she’s aware of the distance—or lack of it—just as much as you are. The faint, familiar scent of her, something clean and sharp and unmistakably her, drifting just close enough to make your chest tighten.
Holly chatters happily in your lap, pointing up at the sky, completely oblivious.
“Do you think they’ll do the big ones first or last?” she asks, craning her neck.
“Last,” Mike says. “They always save the best for the end.”
“That’s what I think too,” Holly agrees, like this is a very serious discussion.
You hum softly in acknowledgment, your voice quieter than usual.
Beside you, Max doesn’t say anything.
The silence stretches.
Not empty.
Just… charged.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air.
Everyone looks up.
A firework explodes across the sky.
Bright gold, blooming outward in a sudden burst of light that washes over the yard in flickering color.
Holly gasps, grabbing onto your arm with both hands. “Did you see that?!”
“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice soft.
Another whistle follows.
Another explosion louder this time. Closer.
The sound echoes through your chest, sharp and sudden.
Beside you, Max tenses.
It’s subtle, but you feel it immediately. The way her shoulder stiffens, the slight hitch in her breathing.
A much louder crack splits the air.
Closer than the others. Sudden enough to make the ground itself seem to flinch.
And Max reacts before she can stop herself.
Her hand finds you.
It’s not hesitant.
Not careful.
It’s instinct.
Her fingers close around your wrist, firm and immediate, like they’ve done it a hundred times before.
Your breath catches sharply in your throat.
For a second, everything else drops away.
The noise. The lights. The people around you.
It’s just her hand gripping yours.
Warm. Familiar. Real.
Your body reacts before your brain can catch up, a reflex buried deep enough that it doesn’t need permission. Your fingers twitch slightly under her grip, not pulling away, not moving toward her either just… there.
Like they remember.
Another firework bursts overhead, painting everything in streaks of red and blue. The light flickers across your joined hands, across the space between you.
Then Max realizes.
You feel it in the way her grip falters.
In the sudden stillness that replaces instinct.
Her hand loosens.
Not all at once. Slowly. Like she’s just become aware of what she’s doing and doesn’t know how to undo it without making it worse.
Her fingers slide back from your wrist.
The absence is immediate.
Cold, almost.
She pulls her hand back into her lap, curling her fingers into her palm like she’s trying to hide the movement, like she’s trying to erase it.
You don’t look at her.
You can’t.
Your pulse is too loud, your thoughts too tangled.
Because for that one second she didn’t hesitate.
She didn’t think about the fight, or the silence, or the year between you.
She just reached for you.
Like she always used to.
Another firework explodes overhead, bright and loud and impossible to ignore.
Holly claps in your lap, bouncing slightly against you. “That one was even better!”
Mike laughs softly beside you. “You say that every time.”
“Because they are!”
You swallow, your throat tight.
Beside you, Max shifts.
This time it’s more controlled. More deliberate. She leans back on her hands, putting just a fraction more space between you, her posture carefully neutral.
Like nothing happened.
Like her hand didn’t just find yours without thinking.
But you felt it.
You still feel it.
You keep your eyes on the sky.
It’s easier than looking at her.
Easier than acknowledging what that moment means—what it could mean.
Because after everything…after a year of silence and distance and carefully built walls your first instinct hadn’t been to pull away.
And neither had hers.
· ─ ·✶· ─ ·
The last firework fades slower than the rest.
It lingers in the sky in a soft scatter of gold, like it can’t quite decide whether to disappear or hold on a little longer. For a moment, everything goes quiet—no whistles, no cracks, just the distant echo of something already over.
Then the noise comes rushing back in.
Voices overlap, chairs scrape against the grass, people start standing, stretching, talking all at once like they’ve been holding it in. Someone laughs too loud. Someone else immediately starts arguing about which one was the best. The spell breaks.
Holly squirms in your lap, already halfway turned around. “I’m gonna go see if there’s any more cupcakes,” she announces, like this is urgent, slipping out of your arms before you can respond.
“Hey! Don’t run,” you call after her automatically.
She’s already gone.
The space she leaves behind feels bigger than it should.
For a second, you just sit there, hands resting awkwardly in your lap where she used to be, the warmth already fading. The blanket shifts as people move around you, the edges lifting, folding, being dragged away piece by piece.
Mike stands, brushing grass off his jeans. “I’m gonna grab drinks,” he says, glancing down at you.
You nod, not really thinking about it.
“Want anything?”
“No, I’m good.”
He hesitates for half a second—just enough to notice, just enough to make it feel intentional—then gives a small nod and heads toward the house.
And just like that it’s quieter.
Not completely silent, but quieter than before. The kind of quiet that settles in the spaces between people, in the edges of things.
You don’t realize how alone you are until you feel it.
Until you feel her still sitting beside you.
Max hasn’t moved.
The awareness of her comes back all at once, sharp and immediate. The space between you is still small, though not as small as it was before. Careful now. Controlled.
You could leave.
You should probably leave.
Instead, you stay.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
The air feels heavier out here, away from the center of the yard. The sounds from the others drift over in fragments—laughter, muffled voices, the slam of the back door opening and closing—but they feel distant. Like they’re happening somewhere else.
You stare out at the now-empty sky, still faintly hazy from smoke.
“Hey.”
Her voice is quiet.
Closer than you expect.
You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at her.
Max is already looking at you.
“Hey,” you echo.
It’s awkward immediately.
Not hostile. Not cold.
Just… unfamiliar.
Like you’re both trying to remember how this works.
Max looks away first, her gaze dropping to her hands where they rest in her lap. She picks at a loose thread on the edge of the blanket, pulling it, wrapping it around her finger, unwrapping it again.
“I—” she starts, then stops.
You wait.
She exhales softly through her nose, like she’s frustrated with herself. “I didn’t know you quit.”
The words land heavier than they should.
You blink once. “Cheer?”
She nods, still not looking at you. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat.
“You weren’t supposed to.”
It comes out before you can stop it.
Not sharp. Not exactly.
But not soft either.
Max’s head lifts at that, her eyes snapping back to yours. “What is that supposed to mean?”
You shrug, even though it doesn’t quite match the feeling in your chest. “Nothing. Just—”
You trail off, shaking your head slightly.
She frowns. “No, just what?”
You let out a quiet breath, glancing away for a second before looking back at her. “It’s just complicated, it doesn't even really make sense.”
Her expression tightens. “Yeah, well, a lot of things don’t make sense.”
There’s something under that.
Something closer to the surface than either of you are ready for.
She shifts slightly, her hand brushing against the blanket between you. “You liked it.”
“I know,” You say quickly.
“Then why—”
“I just did, okay?” You cut in, sharper this time.
The words hang there, abrupt and unfinished.
You stare at her for a second, searching her face, but she’s already looking away again, jaw tight, shoulders tense.
It’s not about cheer.
You both know it’s not about cheer.
The silence stretches again, thinner this time. More fragile.
Max exhales, slower now, like she’s trying to recalibrate.
“I asked about you,” she says after a moment, quieter.
You blink, caught off guard. “What?”
“I asked,” she repeats, glancing at you briefly. “Lucas. Dustin. Mike sometimes. I—” She stops, swallowing slightly. “I didn’t just… not care.”
Something in your chest twists.
You look down at your hands. “That’s not the same.”
The words come out softer than before, but they hit harder.
Max’s head turns toward you again, her brows pulling together. “What?”
“That’s not the same,” you repeat, a little steadier this time. “As actually talking to me.”
“I—” she starts, then falters.
For a second, it looks like she doesn’t have a response. Like she wasn’t expecting that.
“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” she says finally.
Your head lifts. “Why wouldn’t I—”
“You left,” she cuts in, not loud, but firm. “You just—stopped.”
The words land between you, heavy and immediate.
You stare at her, something sharp rising up in your chest. “You told me to.”
Max freezes.
For a second, neither of you breathes.
“I didn’t—” she starts, but it’s weak. Uncertain.
“You did,” you say, not angry, but not backing down either. “You told me to go. So I did.”
Her eyes flicker, something shifting there—confusion, maybe. Or doubt.
“That’s not—” She shakes her head, like she’s trying to piece something together. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Okay,” you say, but it doesn’t sound like agreement. “Then what did you mean?”
She opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
“I just—” Her voice catches slightly, frustration bleeding through. “I thought you’d come back.”
The admission hangs there, fragile and raw.
Something in your chest tightens painfully.
“Well,” you say, quieter now. “I guess you were wrong–”
“Hey!”
The voice cuts through everything.
Loud. Bright. Too close.
You both flinch slightly as Dustin comes jogging over, a half-eaten popsicle in his hand, completely oblivious to the tension he’s just walked into.
“Okay, serious question,” he starts, dropping down onto the edge of the blanket like nothing’s happening. “Do we think the third one was better than the fifth one, or are we all just blinded by recency bias?”
You blink at him.
Max leans back slightly, the space between you widening just enough to break whatever had been building.
Dustin looks between the two of you, finally registering something. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly.
“Nothing,” Max echoes at the same time.
He squints. “Uh-huh.”
The moment is gone.
Completely.
Whatever fragile thread you’d been pulling at—whatever almost-understanding you were circling—snaps clean in two.
You look away first this time, your gaze drifting back toward the yard, toward the noise and the movement and anything that isn’t this.
Beside you, Max shifts again, her hands folding tightly in her lap.
Neither of you tries to pick it back up.
But the words are still there.
Hanging between you.
Unfinished.
· ─ ·✶· ─ ·
The porch light hums softly above you, a steady, quiet contrast to the fading noise of the backyard.
Out here, everything feels a little more distant.
The laughter is still there, but dulled. The music, quieter. Even the air feels cooler, like it’s trying to settle things down after everything that just happened.
You lean against the railing, arms folded tight across your chest, eyes fixed somewhere out in the dark where the yard meets the trees. It’s easier than looking back. Easier than thinking too hard about the conversation you didn’t finish.
About the things she said.
About the things you didn’t.
The screen door creaks.
You don’t turn.
Footsteps follow—familiar, unhurried. They stop a few feet behind you, close enough to feel, not close enough to crowd.
There’s a pause.
“You wanna tell me what that was?”
Mike’s voice isn’t loud.
But it’s not casual either.
You exhale slowly through your nose. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yeah,” he says flatly. “You do.”
You shift your weight, jaw tightening slightly. “It was nothing.”
There’s a beat.
Then a short, disbelieving breath from behind you.
“Right. Because that”—he gestures vaguely toward the yard—“looked like nothing.”
You finally turn, just enough to glance at him.
Mike’s already watching you.
Arms crossed. Expression set. Not angry, exactly—but there’s something firm in it. Something that isn’t going to let this slide.
You look away again almost immediately.
“I’m fine,” you say.
“No, you’re not.”
The response is instant.
Sure.
You let out a quiet huff, more tired than anything. “I said I’m fine, Mike.”
“And I said you’re not,” he shoots back, stepping a little closer now. “And I’m kinda done pretending like I don’t see it.”
Your shoulders tense.
“See what?”
He lets out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to decide how to say this without making it worse.
Fails.
“You’re acting like she doesn’t care,” he says, looking straight at you. “Like none of this matters to her.”
You blink, caught off guard by how direct that is.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” he cuts in. “Every time she’s around, you shut down. You won’t look at her, you won’t talk to her, and then you go around acting like she’s the one who checked out.”
Your chest tightens.
“I’m not acting like anything,” you say, sharper now.
Mike tilts his head slightly, unimpressed. “You don’t get to decide that for her.”
The words hit harder than you expect.
You straighten a little, turning toward him fully now. “I’m not deciding anything. She made it pretty clear.”
“Oh my god,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.
“What?” you snap.
“You’re both being idiots.”
The bluntness of it lands like a slap.
You stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious,” he says, not backing off. “This whole thing? It’s stupid. You’re both stuck in your own heads, making assumptions, and it’s—” He gestures between you, frustrated. “It’s exhausting to watch.”
Something defensive flares up immediately.
“She told me to leave,” you say, the words coming out fast, like you’ve been holding onto them for too long. “She meant it.”
Mike doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yeah,” he says.
The agreement throws you off for half a second.
“And you stayed gone.”
It lands clean.
No edge. No raised voice.
Just the truth.
You go still.
Mike watches you carefully now, not as sharp, but just as steady. “You don’t get to act like this is all on her,” he adds, quieter. “It’s not.”
Your throat feels tight.
“I did what she asked,” you say, but there’s less bite in it now. Less certainty.
Mike shakes his head. “No. You did what was easier.”
That stings.
Your brows pull together. “That’s not—”
“You could’ve come back,” he says, cutting you off again, but softer this time. “You could’ve checked. You could’ve asked what she meant instead of just… deciding for both of you what it was.”
You don’t have an answer for that.
Because you remember.
The way it felt. The way it hurt. The way leaving felt like the only option that didn’t make things worse.
The way you never went back.
Mike exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Look,” he says, quieter now. “I get it. You were hurt. She was too. Nobody handled it great.”
A beat.
“But you don’t get to keep punishing each other for it forever.”
The words settle heavily between you.
From inside, the muffled sound of laughter drifts through the door again. Someone calls Dustin’s name. A burst of noise, then quiet.
Out here, it feels like a different world.
You look down at your hands, flexing your fingers slightly without thinking.
You can still feel it.
Her hand around your wrist.
Instinct.
Not hesitation.
Not distance.
Mike follows your gaze, then looks back up at you.
“She cares,” he says, more gently now. “It’s obvious.”
Your jaw tightens.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he replies simply. “And deep down? You do too.”
Silence stretches.
Not tense.
Not loud.
Just… full.
Mike steps back after a moment, giving you space again.
“I’m not saying you have to fix it tonight,” he adds. “But you should probably stop pretending there’s nothing to fix.”
He turns toward the door, then pauses, glancing back at you one last time.
“Just… don’t wait another year, okay?”
Then he’s gone.
The screen door creaks shut behind him, the noise of the house swallowing him back up.
You’re left on the porch.
Alone again.
But not the same kind of alone as before.
Your grip tightens slightly on the railing as you stare out into the dark.
Because the worst part isn’t what he said.
It’s that you don’t know how to argue with it.
· ─ ·✶· ─ ·
The basement feels warmer than the rest of the house.
Not by much—but enough.
Enough that the air is a little thicker, a little closer, like all the leftover energy from the night has settled down here instead of drifting off with everyone else. The low ceiling traps the noise, soft laughter and overlapping conversations bouncing gently off the walls. Someone turned on a lamp in the corner, casting everything in a dim, golden glow that makes the space feel smaller than it is.
Familiar. Safe.
You sit on the arm of the couch, one foot hooked on the cushion, the other resting against the floor. Someone—probably Dustin—has dragged down a pile of blankets that are now half-used, half-forgotten across the room. Steve is slouched in a chair that looks too small for him, Nancy tucked beside Jonathan on the other end of the couch, Lucas leaning back against the wall like he hasn’t fully relaxed all night.
Max is across the room.
Not far.
Close enough that you’re aware of her without trying.
Far enough that it still feels intentional.
Dustin is in the middle of the room, because of course he is.
“I’m just saying,” he insists, waving a folded piece of paper in the air like it’s evidence in a courtroom, “there was absolutely no reason to call me an idiot. That was unprovoked.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the room.
Max, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back against the couch, rolls her eyes without any real bite behind it. “You are an idiot.”
“See?” Dustin throws his hands up. “Again! Completely unnecessary!”
“It was one time,” she shoots back.
“It was in writing,” he argues, shaking the letter slightly. “That makes it permanent.”
“That makes it accurate,” Steve mutters from his chair.
Another round of laughter.
Even Lucas cracks a small smile.
For a second it feels normal.
Like something easy and familiar you almost recognize.
You don’t realize you’ve relaxed until Holly’s voice cuts through the room.
“Wait,” she says, sitting cross-legged on the floor near you, looking between everyone with wide, curious eyes. “What letter?”
Dustin immediately perks up, delighted to have a new audience. “Oh! Okay, so Max wrote all of us letters—”
Max groans softly. “Can we not—”
“—and in mine,” Dustin continues loudly, ignoring her completely, “she specifically included a section where she insults my intelligence.”
“I did not include a section,” Max says, exasperated.
“You called me an idiot three separate times!”
“That’s not a section, that’s a theme.”
Holly giggles.
“Why’d you write letters?” she asks, tilting her head.
There’s a shift.
Small. Subtle.
But it’s there.
You feel it in the way the room quiets just slightly.
In the way Dustin’s grin falters for half a second.
In the way Lucas’s gaze drops.
Max doesn’t answer right away.
She just shrugs one shoulder, casual on the surface. “Just in case,” she says.
Holly seems to accept that immediately.
“Can I see yours?” she asks Dustin.
“No,” he says instantly, clutching it to his chest. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s private.”
“You just told everyone what it said.”
“That’s different.”
Holly frowns, clearly unconvinced.
Then, like her brain has already moved on to the next thing—
“What did everybody else’s letters say?” she asks, looking around at everyone else.
Nancy smiles faintly. “Something nice.”
Steve shrugs. “Mine was mostly bossy.”
“It was not bossy,” Max mutters.
“It told me to ‘get my life together,’” Steve counters.
“Because you should.”
“That’s subjective.”
There’s another soft ripple of laughter.
Holly turns again.
“What did yours say?”
The question lands lightly.
Innocently.
But it hits like something heavier.
The room doesn’t react right away.
Not out loud.
But you feel it.
The slight pause.
The almost-shift in attention.
It’s not a secret.
Everyone here knows.
You don’t look at Max.
You keep your gaze on Holly, offering a small shrug like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.
“I didn’t get one,” you say.
Simple.
Easy.
The words fall into the room without weight.
Except they don’t stay that way.
Because across from you Max goes still.
It’s immediate.
You feel it before you even look.
The way the air changes.
The way something tightens.
She’s already staring at you.
Not confused.
Not questioning.
Just still.
“…What?” she says.
The word is quiet.
But it cuts clean through the room.
Holly looks between you, confused. “What?”
“You didn’t—” Max sits up a little straighter, her brows pulling together. “What do you mean you didn’t get one?”
Your stomach twists slightly.
You shrug again, but it feels different this time. Less casual. More… guarded.
“I mean I didn’t get one,” you repeat.
A beat.
Max shakes her head once, like she’s trying to correct something. “No, I—” she stops, frowning. “I wrote you one.”
The words land heavier this time.
You feel the shift ripple through the room.
Dustin goes quiet.
Lucas looks up.
Steve straightens slightly in his chair.
You don’t move.
“I didn’t get it,” you say.
Max stares at you.
Like that answer doesn’t fit.
Like it doesn’t make sense in a way she can’t immediately fix.
“That’s not—” she shakes her head again, more firmly now. “I wrote it. I remember writing it.”
Something in your chest tightens.
Silence settles.
Heavier this time.
Max’s expression shifts—confusion bleeding into something sharper. Something unsettled.
Lucas straightens slightly. “I—” he hesitates. “I gave everyone theirs.”
Everyone.
The word hangs there.
You don’t say anything.
You don’t need to.
Max’s jaw tightens slightly, her gaze flicking away for half a second before snapping back to you.
“I wrote it,” she says again, softer now. Not defensive. Not sharp. Just… certain.
You believe her.
That’s the problem.
Because if she wrote it and you didn’t get it then something went wrong.
“I thought you found it,” she says.
The words are quieter now.
Careful.
Your chest tightens.
“I thought you didn’t write one,” you admit.
That lands.
Harder than anything else so far.
Because now there’s no anger in it.
No accusation.
Just the truth.
Max’s expression flickers.
Something cracks through the certainty.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Around you, the room has gone completely still.
No one interrupts.
No one jokes.
No one moves.
Because this is different.
“That day,” you say, your voice slower now, like you’re walking through it as you speak. “At the hospital. Lucas handed them out. He got to the end and—” you swallow slightly. “There wasn’t one left.”.
Max exhales slowly, her gaze dropping to the floor for a second before lifting back to you.
“I didn’t just… not write you one,” she says.
And there’s something in her voice now something raw.
Something that wasn’t there before.
Your chest tightens again.
For a year you thought you had your answer.
You thought you understood what that silence meant.
The space between you feels different now.
Not smaller.
Not easier.
Just… altered.
Unsteady.
Like the ground beneath it isn’t as solid as you thought.
You look at her.
She’s already looking at you.
There’s too much there now.
Too many questions.
Too many missing pieces.
Because if the letter existed then everything you built on its absence everything you told yourself might not be true.
Max’s gaze flickers, just slightly, like she’s about to say something.
I am finally free from the shackles of work and school for a week!!! Going to try and get all the requests done as well as some part twos!!! If you have ideas please request and I will try and get them done soon!!!
Mike Wheeler x Reader, Max Mayfield x ExBestFriend! Reader(platonic)
Summary: Three years ago, despite monsters and constant danger, life felt easier because fear and pain were shared among friends. Now, a year after a devastating fight with Max, you’ve both avoided each other, leaving a painful void where your friendship once was. At a Fourth of July gathering, you’re forced back into her presence, reopening old wounds. Memories of your falling-out and the guilt of not being there when Max was hospitalized weigh heavily on you. As tensions rise during the party, small interactions reveal lingering hurt, unresolved feelings, and the fragile possibility that things between you might not be completely broken. (6.2K)
Warnings/tags: friendship angst, reader and max are shit at communication, Lucas is caught in the crossfire, mike and reader have a past that is vaguely mentioned, mike and reader are cute, reader is a hard ass, max tries, holly is a buffer
Part 2!
· ─ ·✶· ─ ·
Three years ago everything had been easier.
Which sounded ridiculous when you really thought about it. Three years ago there had been monsters, gates ripping open in the earth, and a man so cruel and relentless that every waking moment had felt like borrowed time. An evil man who had wanted you all dead. Who had hunted you like prey. Who had turned your town into a nightmare.
And somehow… somehow that had been easier than this.
Because back then the pain had been shared. The fear had been shared. Every terrible moment had been faced together in the flickering light of Mike Wheeler’s basement, surrounded by mismatched chairs, soda cans, and the familiar scatter of dice across the table.
Back then you hadn’t been alone.
Now the basement lights glowed just as warmly as they always had, but sitting here felt like balancing on broken glass.
It had been a year since you and Max had spoken properly. A year of carefully avoiding the same rooms, the same gatherings, the same awkward silences that hung heavy whenever your names were mentioned in the same sentence. A year of pretending you didn’t care.
Pretending you didn’t miss your best friend.
Pretending it didn’t hurt like hell to hear updates about Max secondhand.
“Lucas said she started physical therapy again,” Mike had told you once, standing awkwardly at the edge of your bedroom window after climbing in like he always did these days. “He thinks it’s helping.”
You had nodded like that information didn’t feel like a knife slowly twisting in your ribs.
Like you hadn’t once been the person Max told everything to.
Now the chain went Lucas to Mike… and Mike to you.
Max’s recovery filtered through two middlemen like gossip instead of something sacred.
You hated it.
You hated that you were too stubborn to fix it.
Skipping D&D had been easier than sitting at the table pretending everything was normal. Easier than imagining Max across from you, dice in hand, acting like you didn’t exist.
Or worse—looking at you like you were a stranger.
So you stopped coming.
The boys complained at first.
Dustin had shown up at your door dramatically claiming the campaign would collapse without your character. Will had quietly asked if you were okay. Lucas had tried not to pick sides. Mike had tried the hardest of all.
When you wouldn’t come to the basement anymore, he started coming to you.
Sneaking through your window late at night with contraband snacks and stories from the latest sessions. Sitting on the floor of your room while the two of you talked about everything and nothing.
It wasn’t the same.
But it was something.
Which was why you trusted him.
Which was why this felt like betrayal.
Because Mike Wheeler had absolutely lied to you.
“You sure no one else is gonna be there?” you had asked earlier that afternoon while he leaned against his bike outside your house.
“Positive,” Mike said instantly. Too instantly. “My parents are out, Nancy’s working, Jonathan’s with her, and Lucas and Dustin are busy. It’ll just be us. Same as always.”
“Then why do I have to come to your house?”
“Because Holly wants to hang out,” he shrugged. “She’s bored.”
You had rolled your eyes but agreed.
Holly was harmless.
Holly asked questions about everything but at least Holly didn’t come with emotional landmines.
But the moment you stepped into the Wheeler kitchen you knew.
There were dishes everywhere.
Premade casseroles, trays of pasta salad, bowls wrapped in plastic. A mountain of burger buns stacked beside aluminum foil pans.
Red, white, and blue streamers hung from the cabinets. Paper flags stuck out of cups. Through the sliding glass door you could see the deck covered in decorations.
Fourth of July decorations.
The kind you only put up when people are coming over.
Your stomach dropped.
You turned slowly toward Mike.
“You lied.”
Mike had the decency to look guilty.
“It’s not that bad—”
“Michael—”
“Please don’t leave,” he said quickly, stepping in front of the door like a human barricade. “Just give it a chance. Everyone misses you.”
Everyone.
That word echoed ominously.
Before you could respond, the back door slid open and Dustin’s voice burst into the kitchen.
“Okay but burgers are objectively superior to hotdogs and I will die on this hill.”
Too late.
You had already been seen.
So now you were here.
Sitting in Mike Wheeler’s basement for the first time in a year.
Exactly where you had been trying not to be.
The familiar couch felt foreign under your hands as you sat stiffly between Will and Mike. Will offered you a small, sympathetic smile like he understood exactly how uncomfortable you felt.
Mike, on the other hand, looked like he was trying not to breathe too loudly.
Across the room Dustin was pacing dramatically while Steve leaned against a chair, arms crossed in amusement.
“Hotdogs are mystery meat!” Dustin declared, gesturing wildly. “You don’t even know what’s in them!”
“They’re delicious mystery meat,” Steve countered.
“Burgers have structure, okay? They have integrity.”
“You’re comparing grilled meat like it’s architecture.”
Normally you would have laughed.
Normally you would have jumped into the argument immediately.
Now your heart was hammering so loudly you wondered if everyone could hear it.
· ─ ·✶· ─ ·
For a moment you almost convince yourself they aren’t coming.
Maybe Lucas and Max had other plans tonight. Maybe Mike had only invited the others. Maybe the party upstairs was just for neighbors and random family friends. Maybe—just maybe—you hadn’t been completely tricked into walking into the exact situation you had spent the last year avoiding.
It helps that Mike keeps sending you apologetic glances.
Every time you look at him, he looks like a kid who knows he’s in serious trouble but is hoping if he acts normal long enough maybe you won’t yell at him later.
It’s not working.
Your heart is still beating way too fast.
Dustin is in the middle of a dramatic rant about hotdogs when the basement door opens upstairs.
The sound freezes you in place.
Lucas’s voice drifts down first.
“Hello? Anyone down there?”
Dustin spins toward the stairs like he’s been personally summoned. “If you’re bringing hotdogs, don’t bother!”
Lucas appears halfway down the steps a second later, laughing under his breath.
“You are so dramatic.”
He reaches the bottom of the stairs and glances around the room.
Then he sees you.
His expression flickers in surprise for just a second—but it softens quickly, the way someone does when they’re hoping things might finally be okay again.
“Hey,” he says.
Not awkward. Not tense. Just… hopeful.
You manage a quiet, “Hi.”
Lucas gives you a small smile before greeting the others.
Dustin immediately points at him. “Settle an argument. Burgers or hotdogs.”
Lucas groans. “I’m not getting involved in that.”
You barely hear any of it.
Because someone else is coming down the stairs.
You don’t have to look to know who it is.
Max follows a step behind Lucas.
You catch the flash of red hair first, bright even in the dim basement light. She looks almost the same as you remember—jeans, sneakers, that casual posture like she doesn’t care what anyone thinks.
Except she moves a little slower now.
Carefully.
Your stomach twists.
Max steps off the last stair and glances around the room, offering quiet greetings.
And then she looks at you.
She freezes.
The entire room seems to go still.
Her eyes widen just slightly, like she didn’t expect to see you here any more than you expected to see her.
Her mouth opens like she’s about to speak.
Like she’s about to say your name.
Your chest tightens painfully.
You can’t do this.
“I—uh—”
Your voice sounds strained even to your own ears.
“I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.”
The words come out too fast.
You stand before anyone can respond, before Max can say anything, before Mike can stop you.
You head for the stairs as quickly as you can without technically running.
You can feel eyes on your back the whole way up.
The hallway bathroom door closes behind you with a soft click.
And the second it does, your legs give out.
You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the cool tile floor.
Your head drops into your hands.
God.
Your heart is pounding like you just sprinted across Hawkins.
Seeing her felt like getting the air knocked out of you.
A whole year.
A whole year of avoiding this exact moment.
You stay like that for a long time.
Long enough for the noise from downstairs to fade back into muffled voices through the floorboards. Long enough for your breathing to slow a little.
Then there’s a knock on the door.
Three soft taps.
“Mike,” you call through the door, your voice tired, “go away.”
There’s a pause.
Then a smaller voice answers.
“It’s not Mike.”
You blink.
“Holly?”
“Yeah.”
Of course it’s Holly.
Mike’s little sister always seems to show up exactly when things are falling apart.
You push yourself up slowly, leaning against the sink.
“What’s up?” you ask through the door.
You hear her shifting her weight outside.
Then she says, a little shy but hopeful, “Can you help me braid ribbon into my hair?”
You frown slightly. “Ribbon?”
“The red and blue one,” Holly explains proudly. “Mom said it would look festive but she doesn’t braid good.”
Despite everything, a small smile pulls at the corner of your mouth.
Holly has always trusted you with very serious responsibilities.
“Give me a minute,” you say.
“Okay.”
You turn on the faucet and splash cold water on your face.
It helps.
You look up at your reflection in the mirror. Your cheeks are a little pale, your eyes a little wide, but at least you don’t look like you’re about to completely fall apart.
Good enough.
You dry your face quickly before opening the door.
Holly stands in the hallway clutching two bright ribbons, looking very determined.
She immediately grabs your hand.
“Come on,” she says, tugging you down the hallway. “We need the good chair.”
You let her pull you along.
As you get closer to the basement stairs, your stomach starts twisting again.
Everyone is still down there.
Including Max.
Holly doesn’t seem to notice your hesitation at all.
“Lucas says fireworks are later,” she chatters as she leads you down the steps. “And Dustin says hotdogs are gross but I like them.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“Yeah,” you murmur.
The basement comes into view again.
Voices quiet slightly when you walk through.
Holly marches straight through the basement door onto the deck and plops down on a chair like a queen preparing for royal hairstyling.
“Okay,” she announces, holding up the ribbons. “Make it look cool.”
You step behind her slowly.
You don’t look around.
Not yet.
But you can feel it immediately.
You don’t need to see her to know Max is watching you.
· ─ ·✶· ─ ·
You try to focus on Holly’s hair.
The red and blue ribbons sit looped around your fingers as you carefully separate sections of her blonde hair, twisting and weaving the strands the way she asked. The process should be easy. You’ve braided Holly’s hair dozens of times before—before school concerts, birthday parties, random afternoons when she decided she needed “a cool style.”
Normally your hands move automatically.
Tonight they won’t stop shaking.
The backyard buzzes with noise around you. The Fourth of July barbecue has spilled outside now, the air filled with the smell of charcoal and grilled meat. Someone—probably Dustin—is still arguing loudly about food preferences near the deck. Laughter bursts out every few seconds from somewhere near the table of drinks.
But all of it feels distant.
Because you can feel it.
You can feel her staring at you.
You don’t have to look to know where Max is standing. Your body is painfully aware of her presence, like some invisible thread pulling your attention toward her whether you want it or not.
“—and then she told Mrs. Carter that frogs are amphibians but technically they’re also like reptiles sometimes which is weird,” Holly rambles happily, completely unaware of the storm happening inside your head. “But then Sarah said frogs can’t be reptiles because reptiles have scales and frogs are slimy—”
“Uh-huh,” you murmur automatically.
You braid another section.
Try not to think about Max standing somewhere behind you.
Try not to imagine the expression on her face.
Try not to remember the last time the two of you actually spoke.
But your mind betrays you.
Because the memory is still sharp.
Still painful
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It had started like any other night.
You had shown up at Max’s house after dinner, letting yourself in the way you always did.
The TV had been on but muted, the glow flickering across the living room walls. Max had been curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket around her shoulders even though it wasn’t cold.
You remembered thinking she looked smaller somehow.
Like the weight of everything that had happened had folded her inward.
“Hey,” you had said, dropping your bag near the door.
Max had glanced up briefly.
“Hey.”
You had hesitated for a second before sitting down on the edge of the coffee table across from her.
“So,” you said carefully, “Lucas has a game tonight.”
Max didn’t respond.
You pushed forward anyway.
“I was thinking maybe we could go.”
Still nothing.
“It might be good to get out for a bit, you know? Just for a couple hours.”
Max’s jaw tightened slightly.
“I don’t want to go.”
You leaned forward, trying to sound encouraging instead of pushy.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Everyone will be there.”
Her eyes snapped up to yours.
“I said I don’t want to go.”
The sharpness in her voice made you pause.
You tried again, softer this time.
“Max, you’ve barely left the house in weeks. I just thought maybe—”
“Stop.”
The word cut through the room like glass.
“What?”
Max suddenly pushed the blanket off and stood up.
Her movements were jerky, restless.
“I’m so sick of you doing this.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
You frowned.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m broken!”
The words exploded out of her.
You flinched.
“I don’t—Max, I’m not—”
“Yes you are!” she snapped. “You’re always hovering around me, trying to fix everything like I’m some project.”
Your chest tightened.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” you said quickly. “I just want to help.”
Max laughed bitterly.
“Of course you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, her voice shaking now, “that once again this is about you.”
You stared at her.
“What?”
“You helping. You trying. You being the good friend.”
Your confusion twisted into hurt.
“Max—”
“Do you know how exhausting that is?” she continued, pacing across the room now. “You constantly acting like you’re doing me some huge favor by sticking around.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to say it!”
The silence that followed felt suffocating.
You stood slowly.
“That’s not fair.”
Max turned on you instantly.
“Fair?” she scoffed. “You want to talk about fair?”
Her eyes were blazing now.
“The whole friendship was an act.”
The words hit you like a punch.
“…What?”
“A way for you to feel good about yourself,” Max said harshly. “Look at you, being friends with the messed up girl. Look at you being so patient and supportive.”
Your mouth opened in shock.
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” you said firmly, your voice cracking. “Max, that’s insane.”
You took a step toward her.
“You’re my best friend.”
“Don’t.”
The single word stopped you cold.
Max’s face had gone completely closed off.
Like a wall had slammed down between you.
“Don’t say that.”
You swallowed hard.
“Max, you don’t mean this.”
“Yeah,” she said flatly. “I do.”
You shook your head helplessly.
“Please just listen—”
“No.”
Her voice was ice now.
“I’m done listening.”
You tried again.
“Max—”
“Don’t speak to me again.”
The words landed like stones.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“…What?”
“Leave me alone.”
You stood there frozen.
Max pointed toward the door.
“Get out.”
You felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.
“Max—”
“Go.”
Your throat burned.
But you turned anyway.
Because the look on her face told you she meant it.
And that night was the last time you had spoken to her.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Is it supposed to be crooked?”
Holly’s voice snaps you back to the present.
You blink down at the braid in your hands.
Your fingers had paused halfway through.
“Sorry,” you murmur quickly, adjusting the ribbon.
You finish weaving the strands together and tie the end carefully.
“There.”
Holly beams.
“It’s perfect!”
She hops down from the chair and runs inside to find a mirror.
You straighten slowly.
For a moment you consider going back in with her.
Escaping.
But instead you stay where you are.
Standing on the edge of the Wheeler’s deck.
The summer air is warm against your skin.
And across the yard—
Max is still looking at you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You’re still staring out across the yard when Holly bursts back through the sliding door.
For a second you think she’s just excited about the braid.
Then the music starts.
A crackly speaker somewhere near the picnic table suddenly fills the yard with bright, unmistakable piano notes.
And then the opening line of Dancing Queen.
Holly lets out the loudest squeal you’ve ever heard.
“Oh my gosh I love this song!”
Before you can react she bolts across the grass, ribbons bouncing wildly in her newly braided hair.
You blink, watching her sprint straight toward Nancy Wheeler, who’s standing near the cooler talking to Jonathan.
“Nancy!” Holly shouts, grabbing her hand. “Dance with me!”
Nancy startles, laughing in surprise as Holly immediately starts spinning her in a circle.
“Holly—wait—!”
But Holly is relentless.
“Come on! Come on!”
Nancy finally gives in, laughing harder as she lets Holly twirl her around the middle of the yard while the music swells around them.
You can’t help it.
A small laugh escapes you.
It’s quick and quiet, but real.
Holly looks ridiculous and joyful all at once, ribbons flying everywhere as she jumps around Nancy like a tiny disco ball of energy.
For a second—just one second—you forget everything else.
Then you look up.
And meet Max’s eyes.
She’s standing near the edge of the yard with Lucas, a paper cup in her hand. The music is loud enough that everyone else seems caught up in the moment—Steve clapping along to the beat, Dustin loudly declaring that ABBA is “objectively a masterpiece.”
But Max isn’t looking at any of them.
She’s looking at you.
The moment your eyes meet her gaze drops slightly, like she hadn’t expected you to notice.
Your stomach twists.
You look away immediately.
You focus back on the yard instead—on Holly dancing wildly with Nancy, on the glow of the string lights Mike’s parents hung across the deck, on the smell of grilled burgers still lingering in the warm night air.
Anything except Max.
Footsteps crunch softly in the grass beside you.
You don’t have to look to know who it is.
Mike stops next to you, shoving his hands awkwardly into the pockets of his shorts.
For a moment neither of you say anything.
He clears his throat.
“…You okay?”
You let out a quiet breath.
“No.”
He winces slightly at the honesty.
You glance at him.
“I don’t like being blindsided, Mike.”
His shoulders sink a little.
“I know.”
“You told me no one was coming.”
“I know.”
You fold your arms across your chest.
“You lied.”
Mike rubs the back of his neck, staring out at the yard instead of meeting your eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
You huff softly.
“No you’re not.”
He glances at you.
“…You’re right.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I’m not.”
That makes you look at him properly.
Mike looks uncomfortable, but determined.
“I mean—I am sorry you’re upset,” he says quickly. “But I’m not sorry I tried.”
You stare at him.
“Tried what?”
He gestures vaguely at the yard.
“At this.”
The party.
The people laughing and talking and dancing under cheap Fourth of July decorations.
“At everyone being together again.”
Your chest tightens.
Mike exhales slowly.
“I just wanted things to go back to how they were.”
A dry laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
“Oh yeah?” you mutter. “You really want to go back to being hunted by a super-powered homicidal maniac again?”
Mike groans.
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Do I?”
“You know I mean before all this,” he says, quieter now. “Before… everything got weird.”
You follow his gaze across the yard without meaning to.
Max is still there.
Still standing with Lucas.
Still very clearly aware that you’re here.
Your stomach twists again.
Mike notices.
“You should talk to her,” he says gently.
Your head snaps toward him.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she doesn’t want me to.”
Mike frowns.
“How do you know that?”
You stare at the grass.
“Because she told me.”
“Yeah,” he says carefully, “a really long time ago.”
“That doesn’t exactly expire.”
Mike sighs.
“She asks about you, you know.”
You look up sharply.
“What?”
“Sometimes,” he says. “Not a lot. But she does.”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s just… courtesy.”
Mike blinks.
“What?”
“It’s polite,” you say quickly, shrugging like it doesn’t matter. “People ask about people they used to know all the time.”
“That’s not what it feels like.”
“Well it is.”
Mike studies your face.
“How do you know?”
You look away again.
“Because I just do.”
Your voice is quieter now.
Certain in that sad, stubborn way that makes Mike’s shoulders slump.
Across the yard the chorus of Dancing Queen explodes from the speakers as Holly drags Dustin into the middle of the grass next.
Everyone laughs.
Everyone cheers.
The music and laughter blur together around you.
Someone cheers when Dustin attempts an overly dramatic disco spin with Holly. Steve claps along to the beat. The smell of charcoal and fireworks drifts through the warm summer air.
But the sound fades the longer you stand there.
Because suddenly all you can think about is the last time you saw Max somewhere like this.
Not tonight.
The hospital.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You hadn’t even known something was wrong.
Not really.
There had been rumors, sure. Hawkins always had rumors. People disappearing. Weird accidents. Another tragedy attached to the long list of tragedies the town had been collecting for years.
But you had stopped paying attention to most of it.
After the fight with Max, the world had gotten very small. It had shrunk down to your bedroom, your headphones, the occasional late-night dinners with your parents.
You avoided everyone else as much as possible.
It was easier that way.
You didn’t ask about Max.
And no one pushed you too hard to talk about her.
So when Dustin showed up at your house that morning looking pale and frantic, you hadn’t been expecting the words that came out of his mouth.
“Max is in the hospital.”
At first, you thought you misheard him.
“What?”
“She—” Dustin swallowed hard. “She got hurt.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What do you mean hurt?”
“I need you to come with me,” he said quickly. “Please.”
That was all it took.
Hawkins Memorial Hospital smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee.
The waiting room lights were too bright.
Your hands had started shaking before you even reached the hallway.
Because you recognized everyone sitting there.
Lucas.
Mike.
Will.
Nancy and Jonathan standing near the window.
Steve pacing like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
Everyone looked exhausted.
Everyone looked scared.
Your brain struggled to process it.
Because none of this made sense.
“What happened?” you asked the moment you stepped into the room.
Your voice came out breathless.
Lucas looked up first.
His eyes were red.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“What happened?” you repeated.
No one answered right away.
They just looked at each other like they didn’t know where to start.
That’s when Dustin stepped forward.
And slowly—haltingly—he explained.
Vecna.
The victims.
Chrissy.
Fred.
Patrick.
Max.
The Upside Down again.
Another fight.
Another nightmare you hadn’t even known was happening.
You stood there frozen while he talked.
Each new piece of information felt like the floor shifting beneath your feet.
“El… she stopped him,” Dustin finished quietly. “But Max… Max got hurt really bad.”
Your ears rang.
Your brain snagged on one single sentence.
Max.
Vecna.
Victim.
“…Is she awake?” you whispered.
Lucas shook his head.
And suddenly the room tilted.
Because the truth slammed into you all at once.
All those nights you had spent lying in bed replaying that fight in your head.
All the time you wasted being angry.
All the days you spent drowning in your own hurt feelings.
While somewhere in this town Max had been fighting something alone.
You hadn’t been there.
You hadn’t even known.
The guilt was crushing.
“I need to see her,” you said.
Lucas hesitated.
Then he nodded.
She looked small in the hospital bed.
Smaller than you had ever seen her.
Machines surrounded her, quietly beeping and humming. Her arms were covered in bruises and IV lines. A cast wrapped around one of her wrists.
But the worst part was how still she was.
Max never sat still.
Not really.
Even when she was quiet there had always been movement—her foot tapping, her fingers drumming, her eyes flicking around the room.
Now she looked frozen.
Like someone had pressed pause.
The sight of it broke something inside you.
You didn’t even realize you were crying until your vision blurred.
You stumbled forward.
“Max…”
Your voice cracked on the name.
Lucas stood near the foot of the bed, his face hollow and tired.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna wake up,” he said quietly.
You reached out before you could stop yourself, gently touching her hand.
Her skin felt warm.
Real.
“Hey,” you whispered shakily. “You’re… you’re supposed to yell at me for coming here.”
Nothing.
The machines kept beeping.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Behind you, someone moved.
And suddenly arms wrapped around your shoulders.
You hadn’t even realized Mike had followed you in.
But he pulled you back against his chest as the sob finally broke out of you.
You clutched the front of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright.
“I didn’t know,” you gasped. “I didn’t know—”
“I know,” Mike murmured softly.
“I should’ve been here,” you cried. “I should’ve—”
“Hey,” he said gently, tightening his arms around you. “Hey, it’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay.
None of it was okay.
But he held you anyway.
Mike Wheeler.
The same boy who had looked you straight in the eye the year before and said you would always just be his friend.
And yet here he was, holding you together while your world cracked open.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You didn’t leave the hospital for two days.
Not really.
Lucas refused to go home.
So you didn’t either.
The two of you stayed in that room like leaving might somehow make things worse.
Lucas sat beside the bed most of the time, holding Max’s hand.
Sometimes he talked to her.
Sometimes he just sat there in silence.
You stayed on the other side of the room in a stiff plastic chair, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
Mike brought food.
Dustin brought comic books.
Will sat quietly with you during the long hours when Lucas fell asleep in the chair.
People came and went.
But the room always circled back to the same thing.
Max lying there.
Still.
Waiting.
On the third day, the whole group was there again.
The air felt heavy.
Lucas looked like he hadn’t slept at all.
He had been staring at the floor for a long time before he suddenly sat up straight.
“…Her letters,” he said.
Everyone looked at him.
“What?” Dustin asked.
Lucas rubbed his face.
“Before everything happened… she wrote letters.”
Your chest tightened.
Lucas reached into his bag.
“She said they were for… in case something happened.”
The room went silent.
He pulled out a stack of folded envelopes.
Your stomach twisted.
Lucas stood slowly.
“I guess… I should give them out.”
One by one he passed them around the room.
A letter for Dustin.
One for Will.
One for Mike.
One for Nancy.
One for Steve.
Each person took theirs carefully, like the paper might break.
You stood near the wall, watching.
Waiting.
Lucas reached the bottom of the stack.
Then he stopped.
The room felt suddenly too quiet.
You realized his hands were empty.
No one said anything.
No one looked at you directly.
And in that moment you understood.
Max had written letters for everyone she cared about.
Everyone she thought would care if she was gone.
But not you.
The realization landed strangely.
Not like a sharp stab.
More like something heavy settling into your chest.
You didn’t cry.
You didn’t ask questions.
You didn’t say anything at all.
Because the answer had already been given to you a year ago.
Don’t speak to me again.
Leave me alone.
Max had meant it.
Even now.
Even after everything.
You nodded once to yourself.
Then you turned and walked out of the room.
No one stopped you.
And you never went back to the hospital again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Eventually the smell of grilled food becomes too much to ignore.
Steve finally announces that everything is done with the dramatic pride of someone who believes they deserve a medal for surviving the grill.
“Alright, children,” he calls loudly, flipping the tongs onto the tray with a loud clank. “Food is officially ready. Form a line. No pushing.”
Dustin immediately pushes past him.
“This is a historic moment,” he says, grabbing a plate. “I have successfully bullied Steve Harrington into cooking burgers instead of hotdogs.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “You literally watched me grill both.”
“Details.”
The group begins drifting toward the long folding table Karen Wheeler set up in the yard earlier. Paper plates, bowls of chips, pasta salad, watermelon slices, and trays of buns cover nearly every inch of space.
It feels… normal.
Almost.
You hover at the edge of the deck for a second, unsure if you want to join them.
Mike notices immediately.
“Stay here,” he says quietly.
Before you can question it, he jogs over to the table.
You watch him weave through everyone, grabbing a plate and quickly assembling food with surprising efficiency. Burger, chips, pasta salad. He pauses, glances back at you like he’s checking something, then grabs a second burger before returning.
“Here,” he says, handing the plate to you.
“Thank you,” you murmur.
He nods and gestures toward the table.
“C’mon.”
The two of you sit side by side near the middle of the table. The rest of the group slowly fills in around you—Dustin arguing loudly with Steve again, Will and Jonathan talking quietly, Nancy helping Holly climb onto a chair.
You settle in your seat, picking up your plastic fork.
Across from you Lucas sits down, leaning back slightly as he balances his plate.
For a moment everything feels manageable.
Normal conversation hums around the table
Steve is mid-story about something that happened at Family Video when you glance over at him.
And immediately snort.
“Oh my god.”
Steve stops talking.
“What?”
You point lazily with your fork.
“Your hair.”
He frowns.
“What about it?”
You lean back in your chair slightly, examining him like a scientist observing a strange specimen.
“I’m just saying,” you say casually, “I think your hair alone could qualify as toxic waste with the amount of hairspray you use.”
Dustin bursts out laughing immediately.
Steve looks offended.
“It is not toxic.”
“You could probably light it on fire and it would keep burning for a week,” you continue thoughtfully.
“It’s called volume,” Steve argues.
“It’s called a chemical hazard.”
“Jealousy isn’t cute.”
“I’m not jealous,” you scoff. “I’m concerned for the environment.”
More laughter ripples around the table.
You feel Mike bump your shoulder slightly as he chuckles beside you.
And for a second it almost feels like old times again.
“You’re right.”
Your body goes rigid.
The voice comes from directly beside you.
You hadn’t even noticed when she sat down.
Max slides into the chair next to yours so close that your elbows brush against each other.
Your stomach drops instantly.
Across the table, Lucas freezes mid-bite.
He shoots Max a confused look.
But he doesn’t say anything.
Your brain feels like it’s short-circuiting.
You keep your eyes firmly on your plate.
Steve groans dramatically.
“Oh come on! ”
Max shrugs, reaching for a chip.
“I’m just saying,” she says casually, “if the government ever needs a new chemical weapon they should just bottle whatever Harrington sprays in his hair every morning.”
Dustin nearly chokes laughing.
Steve throws his hands up.
“This is slander.”
You don’t laugh.
You can feel Max’s arm barely an inch from yours.
Close enough that the warmth of her skin brushes against your elbow.
Your chest tightens.
Instinctively, you shift away.
Scooting your chair a little closer to Mike.
He glances at you, confused.
But he doesn’t question it.
Instead he casually drapes his arm around the back of your chair, pulling you a little closer to his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The movement creates space between you and Max.
You don’t look at her.
But you feel the shift beside you.
And when you finally glance up for just a second Max is staring at you.
Her expression flickers.
Something hurt flashes across her face before she quickly looks back down at her plate.
She doesn’t comment.
She just starts eating.
The table falls back into normal conversation after that.
Mostly.
You focus on your food, chewing slowly even though your appetite has disappeared.
Holly, however, is still very focused on everything happening around her.
She swings her legs under the table before suddenly looking at you.
“Hey!”
You glance over.
“Yeah?”
Her eyes are bright with excitement.
“Are you still doing cheerleading?”
You blink.
The question catches you off guard.
“Um…”
Holly keeps going before you can answer.
“Because I told Mom I wanna try it when I’m older and she said you used to do it and you could show me how to do flips and stuff.”
Around the table a few people look up.
Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.
“I’m not on the team anymore,” you say quietly.
“Oh.”
Holly frowns slightly, disappointed.
“You’re not?”
You shake your head gently.
“Nope.”
Next to you Max stops eating.
“What?”
Her voice cuts through the conversation.
You feel your stomach drop.
You keep your eyes on your plate.
“What do you mean you’re not on the team?” Max asks.
Before you can answer, Mike speaks up casually.
“She quit back in sophomore year.”
Max turns toward him sharply.
“What?”
Mike shrugs slightly.
“Yeah. She just—stopped.”
Max’s eyes snap back to you.
“Why did no one tell me that?”
The question hangs in the air.
Everyone at the table suddenly looks very interested in their food.
You take a slow bite of your burger.
Swallow.
Then you speak without looking at her.
“It wasn’t important.”
Max stares at you like you just said something ridiculous.
“Of course it’s important.”
You shrug lightly.
“It wasn’t.”
Max leans forward slightly.
“It’s important to me.”
That’s the first time you look at her.
Really look at her.
Her expression is intense. Frustrated. Something else underneath it you don’t quite want to name.
Your chest tightens.
You break eye contact first.
You shrug again and stab at your pasta salad.
“Okay.”
Then you go back to eating.
Max’s mouth opens slightly in disbelief.
She exhales sharply through her nose.
“Unbelievable.”
No one says anything.
Max suddenly pushes her chair back.
“I’ll be right back.”
She stands quickly and heads toward the house.
Lucas watches her go, clearly alarmed.
“Max—”
But she’s already inside.
Lucas sighs and stands up, tossing his napkin on the table.
“I’ll go check on her.”
He hurries after her.
The sliding door shuts behind them.
The table falls into a strange, heavy silence.
You stare down at your plate.
Your appetite is gone.
You start poking at the food with your fork instead.
Mike watches the door for a second, then looks back at you.
His jaw tightens slightly.
He looks… frustrated.
Not at you.
At the situation.
But he doesn’t say anything.
He just leaves his arm around your shoulders while the quiet settles over the table.
Mike Wheeler x Reader/Max Mayfield x platonic!reader
Summary: A year after the fall of Vecna, Hawkins is trying to heal, but some wounds never closed. Once inseparable best friends, you and Max haven’t spoken since the night she pushed you away for good. When she left letters for everyone except you, you took it as proof she meant what she said and kept your distance, even if it hurt. Now Max wants to fix the friendship she broke, Lucas feels caught in the middle, and Mike Wheeler—the same boy who broke your heart the year before—refuses to let you disappear quietly. At the Wheelers’ Fourth of July barbecue, old feelings, buried truths, and one missing letter finally force everything into the open
Summary: Stepping back into Hollywood is nerve racking but luckily you have Finn to help the transition seem a little less daunting. (4.7K)
Part One
Warnings/Tags: Hell of a summer, readers first on screen role, kissing, confessions, fluff, finn lowk yearning for a bit, reader teases finn.
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Finn’s trailer smells faintly like coffee, fake fog machine smoke, and the pine-scented air freshener someone hung from the cabinet handle weeks ago. The scent has settled into everything—the couch cushions, the scripts scattered across the small table, even the cheap curtains covering the narrow window. It’s the kind of smell that instantly tells you you’re on a film set, a strange mix of caffeine, equipment, and too many people working long hours in tight spaces.
The trailer itself is cramped in the way all production trailers are. There’s technically enough space for everything you need, but only barely. A small couch is pushed up against the wall, a narrow table is stacked with scripts, highlighters, and a half-empty coffee cup, and the mirror near the door is framed by bright bulbs that make everything look ten times more dramatic than it actually is. Someone taped a few pages of notes around the edges of the mirror earlier in the week, and they flutter slightly whenever someone opens the door.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch in costume, flipping through your script even though you know the scene by heart at this point. The pages are slightly bent from how many times you’ve handled them over the past few weeks. Your fingers idly trace the edge of one page as you scan the dialogue again, mostly out of habit.
Outside the thin trailer walls, the set buzzes constantly with activity. Crew members shout directions to each other, equipment clatters against metal carts, and somewhere nearby a generator hums steadily in the background. Every now and then you hear someone laugh or call for a lighting adjustment. The sounds blend together into the familiar rhythm of a film set in motion.
A year ago you were reading the script for the first time on your bedroom floor, sitting cross-legged with your laptop open beside you and your sister practically climbing over your shoulder to read along. You remember the exact moment you finished it—the weird mix of excitement and disbelief that you were even considering doing something like this again.
Now you’re here.
On set.
Actually filming it.
Your sister still hasn’t recovered from that fact. She texts you at least once a day asking what happened during filming, and every time you mention something mundane—like wardrobe fittings or rehearsal blocking—she reacts like you’ve just casually dropped the biggest piece of gossip in Hollywood.
Across the small trailer, Finn is leaning against the counter near the coffee machine, scrolling through something on his phone. His hair is slightly messy from wardrobe running their hands through it earlier, and he’s still half in costume, jacket hanging loosely over his shoulders.
After a moment he glances up and notices you staring at the script again.
“You’re studying that like there’s going to be a pop quiz,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
You don’t look up from the page.
“There might be,” you reply casually.
Finn snorts quietly and pushes himself away from the counter.
“It’s literally three lines,” he says, walking closer.
You flip the page with exaggerated seriousness, scanning it again like you’re preparing for the most important performance of your life.
“Preparation is key,” you say.
Finn lets out an amused huff and tosses his phone onto the table before grabbing his own copy of the script. He flips it open, squinting down at the page like he’s double-checking something.
“You know what the funniest part is?” he says after a moment.
You glance up at him.
“What?”
He gestures toward you with the script.
“You’re still pretending like you regret saying yes.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I never said I regretted it.”
“You implied it.”
“I teased it,” you correct.
Finn points at you accusingly, like he’s caught you in a lie.
“Exactly.”
You grin at him, leaning back against the couch cushion.
For a second he just watches you, shaking his head slightly like he still can’t quite believe you’re actually here. It’s the same look he’s given you a few times since filming started—half amused, half amazed.
You catch the expression immediately.
“What?” you ask.
He shrugs, glancing down at the script again.
“Nothing.”
“Finn.”
He exhales through his nose, clearly debating whether to explain.
“It’s just funny,” he says finally.
“What is?”
“That you almost didn’t do this.”
You glance down at the script resting in your lap, your fingers absently smoothing the page.
“Yeah,” you admit quietly.
For a moment neither of you say anything.
Then you flip forward a few pages and hold the script up between you.
“Oh look,” you say casually. “The kiss scene.”
Finn groans immediately, dropping his head back toward the ceiling.
“Oh my god.”
You grin wider.
“I always knew this was your plan.”
His head snaps back toward you.
“My plan?”
“You just wanted an excuse to make out with me.”
Finn nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing slightly as he sets the cup down on the counter.
“That is not why it’s in the script.”
You raise an eyebrow skeptically.
“Sure.”
“I didn’t even write that part,” he insists.
“Convenient.”
“I’m serious!”
You tilt your head, studying him like a detective examining a suspicious witness.
“Mhm.”
Finn throws his hands up in frustration.
“I swear.”
“You’re very passionate about defending this,” you say.
“Because you’re accusing me of being manipulative!”
“You’re a director,” you reply sweetly. “It’s literally your job.”
Finn glares at you for a moment, though the corners of his mouth are already starting to betray him.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet you cast me.”
“Biggest mistake of my life.”
You gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest.
“How dare you.”
Without warning you grab one of the couch pillows and toss it at him.
Finn catches it easily.
“Oh that’s it,” he says, narrowing his eyes.
You immediately narrow yours back.
“What.”
He tosses the pillow aside and suddenly lunges forward.
Before you can react he grabs you around the waist and starts tickling you mercilessly.
You immediately collapse backward onto the couch, laughter bursting out before you can stop it.
“Finn—stop—!”
“You started it!”
“I was kidding!”
“Sure you were!”
You try to shove him away but he just laughs and keeps going, fingers digging into your sides as you squirm helplessly against the cushions.
“Okay okay okay I surrender!” you gasp between laughs.
Finn finally stops, still leaning over you slightly.
“You’re lucky I’m nice.”
“Debatable.”
He points at you again.
“See? This is why you’re getting tickled.”
You shove his shoulder lightly as you sit back up, still laughing.
“I said I was kidding!”
“Mhm,” he says skeptically.
“I was!”
“Sure.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.
For a moment neither of you move.
You’re sitting closer than before now, knees almost touching, the small trailer suddenly feeling much smaller than it did five minutes ago. The noise from outside seems quieter somehow, like the space between you has its own little bubble of silence.
Then—
A sharp knock hits the trailer door.
Both of you jump slightly.
“Finn?” a voice calls from outside. “We’re ready for you guys.”
You glance down at the script still resting in your lap.
The page with the kiss scene.
You slowly close it.
“Well,” you say.
Finn exhales through his nose.
“Well.”
You both stand at the same time.
He opens the trailer door and the noise of the set floods in immediately—crew members moving lights across the clearing, someone adjusting a camera rig near the water, assistants carrying prop crates past the path leading down to the dock.
You step out beside him into the cooler evening air.
An assistant spots you both and waves you over.
“Alright guys,” they call. “Let’s set up for the lake scene.”
You exchange one quick glance with Finn.
The lake scene.
The kiss scene.
He rubs the back of his neck.
“Ready?”
You shrug like it’s no big deal.
“Relax, Wolfhard.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“You’re not nervous?”
You start walking toward the set.
“Please.”
But as you pass him, he briefly rests a hand against the middle of your back to guide you around a thick cable snaking across the ground.
And suddenly you’re very aware of everything again.
The cameras.
The crew.
The scene you’re about to film.
You clear your throat slightly.
“Let’s just get it over with.”
Finn laughs quietly beside you as the two of you step onto your marks near the edge of the dock.
The scene begins with you standing at the edge of the wooden dock, staring out across the lake.
The water reflects the orange glow of the setting sun, rippling gently whenever a breeze moves across the surface. Tall trees surround the shoreline, their leaves rustling softly in the background.
Your character is supposed to look thoughtful here. A little overwhelmed. The kind of quiet moment that happens after chaos.
You don’t have to fake much of it.
You hear Finn’s footsteps approach on the dock behind you.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Exactly like they rehearsed earlier that afternoon.
Your shoulders tense slightly—not entirely acting.
He stops beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence even before you turn.
For a moment neither of you speak.
Just the sound of water moving gently against the dock posts and the distant hum of equipment somewhere behind the cameras.
Then Finn delivers his line.
“You’re really thinking about leaving, aren’t you?”
His voice is softer than usual.
Not nervous.
Just… real.
You turn slowly to face him.
“Maybe.”
The script says your character shrugs here, so you do.
“I mean… someone has to survive this nightmare summer.”
Finn lets out a quiet laugh.
That part wasn’t scripted.
But it fits perfectly.
The camera shifts slightly closer along the track.
Finn looks at you like he’s trying to figure something out.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing.”
“That was definitely a ‘something.’”
He rubs the back of his neck—the same small gesture he makes whenever he’s embarrassed off camera too.
“You’re just… different.”
Your character raises an eyebrow.
“Different good or different bad?”
He hesitates.
“Different… confusing.”
You smile faintly.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
Another pause settles between you.
Then Finn says the next line.
“You ever think maybe I don’t want you to leave?”
The air between you shifts.
Even the crew behind the camera seems to go quieter.
Your heart thumps once in your chest.
You know what comes next.
You’ve read the scene a hundred times.
Still—
You glance down briefly, exactly like the script says.
“You’ll survive,” you say softly.
“I did before you showed up.”
Finn takes half a step closer.
Close enough now that your shoulders almost brush.
“Yeah,” he says.
“But it was way less fun.”
The line lands softer than it did during rehearsal.
Less comedic.
More honest.
You look back up at him.
And suddenly the scene feels very small.
Just the two of you standing on a dock.
The lake glowing behind you.
Finn studies your face for a moment.
Then he says the line that leads into the kiss.
“So what happens now?”
You hesitate.
Your line comes out quieter than expected.
“I guess… we find out.”
There’s a pause written into the script here.
Three seconds.
The camera moves closer.
Your pulse suddenly sounds very loud in your ears.
Finn’s gaze flicks briefly down to your lips.
Then back to your eyes.
And the next part isn’t dialogue.
It’s the moment.
The one everyone’s waiting for.
He steps forward slowly.
One hand lifts slightly, hovering near your arm like he’s not sure if he should touch you.
Your brain suddenly supplies a hundred unhelpful thoughts at once.
There are thirty people watching.
This is professional.
Don’t mess up the blocking.
Why is he looking at you like that—
His fingers finally rest lightly against your wrist.
Warm.
Steady.
You inhale without meaning to.
He leans closer.
You can feel his breath now.
There’s a split second where both of you hover there, right on the edge of the moment.
Not quite touching yet.
Then—
You close the distance.
The kiss is soft.
Careful.
Not rushed.
Your hand comes up instinctively, fingers curling slightly into the front of his jacket as if to steady yourself.
Finn’s other hand settles gently at your waist.
The moment lasts maybe two seconds.
Three at most.
Just long enough to feel real.
Then you pull back slightly, exactly the way the scene requires.
Your foreheads nearly touch as you separate.
Both characters are supposed to look surprised.
That part, at least, isn’t hard.
Finn exhales a quiet laugh.
“Well,” he says.
“That happened.”
You smile slightly.
“Yeah.”
The moment hangs there for another beat.
Then a voice cuts through the quiet.
“Cut!”
The entire crew immediately comes back to life.
Someone lowers the boom mic.
Another person checks playback on the monitor.
An assistant claps once.
“Nice, nice.”
You and Finn step apart almost immediately.
Not awkward.
Just… aware.
A makeup artist rushes forward.
“Sorry! Lipstick transfer,” she says, gently dabbing the corner of Finn’s mouth with a tissue.
You cover your mouth with your hand to hide a laugh.
Finn glances at you.
You glance back.
Neither of you say anything for a second.
Then he mutters quietly under his breath.
“…that was actually really good.”
You nudge his arm lightly.
“Professional, Wolfhard.”
“Right,” he says, straightening.
But he’s still smiling a little.
Behind the monitor someone calls out again.
“Alright, let’s reset! That was great, but I want one more for safety.”
Crew members begin repositioning the camera and adjusting the lighting.
An assistant waves you both back toward the dock.
You start walking toward your marks again.
Finn falls into step beside you.
For a moment neither of you speak.
Then he leans slightly closer and murmurs quietly—
“So… still think I wrote that scene just to make out with you?”
You bump your shoulder into his.
“Don’t push your luck.”
He grins.
And the two of you step back onto the dock as the sun sinks lower behind the trees.
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The set begins to wind down in that gradual, almost sleepy way that happens after a long filming day. The energy that had filled the lake earlier—crew rushing around, assistants calling cues, the camera team adjusting angles—slowly dissolves into the steady rhythm of pack-up.
Crew members wheel lighting rigs back toward the trucks parked beyond the tree line, the metal stands clinking softly as they’re folded down. Long black cables snake across the ground as someone kneels to coil them carefully, looping them over their arm in practiced motions. Nearby, two production assistants carry padded camera cases toward the equipment van, talking quietly as they walk.
The golden sunset that had painted the lake in warm light during the scene fades slowly into a cooler evening blue. The surface of the water darkens, reflecting the silhouettes of trees along the shore. Without the bright filming lights, the place suddenly feels calmer—almost like a real summer camp instead of a movie set.
You sit on the edge of the dock with your legs dangling over the side, sneakers hanging just above the rippling water. The wood beneath you is still slightly warm from the day’s sun, though the air around you has begun to cool.
A production assistant approaches, holding two plastic water bottles. They hand one to you with a small smile before passing the other down the dock to someone else.
“Thanks,” you say, twisting the cap off.
“No problem,” they reply before heading back toward the bustle of the crew.
You take a long sip, the cold water cutting through the lingering warmth of the day. When you lower the bottle, your eyes drift across the set.
Finn stands several feet away with his co director and the cinematographer, the three of them gathered around a monitor balanced on a small folding table. The screen plays back footage from the scene you just filmed, the glowing reflection of the lake flickering across their faces.
Finn gestures occasionally as they talk, pointing toward the water or mimicking a small movement from the scene. Every now and then, though, his attention drifts.
His eyes flick briefly toward you.
You notice.
You try very hard not to.
You fail completely.
Eventually the conversation wraps up. The director claps Finn lightly on the shoulder before walking away toward the camera crew, and the cinematographer heads off to check something with the lighting team.
Finn lingers for a second, glancing down the dock again.
Then he walks over and lowers himself beside you, the wooden planks creaking faintly under his weight.
He twists open his water bottle and takes a sip before exhaling quietly.
“Well,” he says.
You glance at him briefly before looking back at the lake.
“Well,” you echo.
You both sit there for a moment, the quiet stretching comfortably between you as the sounds of the set continue behind your backs.
You take another sip of water, letting your gaze drift across the surface of the lake. The breeze ripples the reflection of the sky, turning the water into shifting streaks of blue and silver.
Neither of you mention the kiss scene.
Not the carefully blocked version you just filmed.
Not the way the moment had lingered slightly longer than expected.
Not the strange feeling that, somewhere in the middle of it, it had stopped feeling entirely like acting.
Finn kicks lightly at the wooden support post beneath the dock, the heel of his shoe knocking gently against it.
“That went… pretty smoothly,” he says after a moment.
You nod slowly.
“Yeah,” you agree.
Another quiet pause settles in.
Then he glances sideways at you.
“You were really good, by the way.”
You turn slightly and bump your shoulder into his.
“Relax, Wolfhard,” you say with a faint grin. “It’s almost like I used to do this for a living.”
He laughs under his breath, shaking his head a little.
“Right,” he says. “Forgot about that.”
The silence that follows is easy, not awkward in the slightest. You both stare out at the lake while the sky deepens into evening, the fading sunlight catching on the water in soft streaks.
After a few minutes, footsteps approach along the dock.
A production assistant walks toward you, holding a clipboard.
“Hey Finn,” they call. “Your ride’s here.”
He nods and stands, stretching his arms slightly after sitting for so long.
“Cool. Thanks.”
The assistant glances over at you.
“You need a ride too, right?”
You push yourself up from the dock.
“Yeah,” you say. “Back to the hotel.”
“Perfect,” they reply. “Same car.”
Finn glances down at you with a small grin.
“Guess we’re carpooling.”
You hop down from the dock beside him, brushing your hands off lightly.
“Very glamorous,” you say.
................................................
The ride back to the hotel is quieter than you expect.
Not awkward.
Just… calm.
The car moves steadily through the evening traffic, headlights reflecting in long streaks across the windows as the city slowly comes into view again. Outside, streetlights flicker on one by one, casting warm pools of light along the sidewalks.
Inside the car, the driver plays low music through the speakers—some mellow indie track you vaguely recognize but can’t quite place.
You sit beside Finn in the back seat, angled slightly toward the window. His arm rests casually along the door, fingers tapping faintly in rhythm with the music.
Every once in a while the car turns a corner or rolls over a small bump in the road, and your shoulders brush lightly.
Neither of you moves away.
After a few minutes, Finn glances over at you.
“You tired?” he asks.
You tilt your head slightly, considering the question.
“A little,” you admit.
“You did a full emotional arc and a dramatic lake kiss today,” he says. “That’s exhausting.”
You smirk faintly.
“You’re the one who had to confess his feelings dramatically.”
“Hey,” he says, feigning offense, “that was written that way.”
“Sure it was.”
He narrows his eyes at you slightly.
“You’re still going to hold that over me, aren’t you?”
You look back out the window, smiling.
“Forever.”
He laughs quietly, the sound soft in the dim car.
A few minutes later the vehicle pulls up in front of the hotel, the bright lobby lights spilling out across the sidewalk.
You thank the driver as you step out of the car, the evening air brushing coolly against your skin. A light breeze moves through the street, carrying the faint sounds of distant traffic and late-night conversation.
Finn walks beside you as you head through the glass doors into the lobby.
The hotel is quieter now than it had been earlier in the day. A few guests linger near the front desk, and someone sits in the lounge area with a laptop open on their knees.
You and Finn cross the marble floor toward the elevators.
The ride up is short.
You lean lightly against the wall of the elevator, arms folded loosely across your chest while the numbers tick upward above the door. Finn stands beside you, his gaze drifting between the floor indicator and the mirrored wall opposite you.
Neither of you speaks.
The elevator dings softly.
Your floor.
You step out first, walking down the quiet hallway toward your room while Finn follows a few steps behind. The carpet muffles your footsteps as you reach your door.
You slide the keycard into the slot.
The small light flashes green with a quiet beep.
You push the door open and step halfway inside before turning back toward him.
“Thanks for the ride,” you say.
“No problem,” he replies.
There’s a brief pause as you stand in the doorway.
You’re about to step inside and close the door when his voice stops you.
“Hey.”
You pause and glance back at him.
“What?”
He shifts slightly in the hallway, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His posture suddenly looks less relaxed than it did a moment ago.
“I… uh… I need to tell you something.”
Your eyebrows lift slightly.
“Okay.”
He hesitates for half a second before speaking again.
“Can I come in?”
You blink once in mild surprise.
Then you step back and pull the door open wider.
“Sure.”
................................................
The hotel room is softly lit when you step inside.
The lamps beside the couch cast a warm yellow glow across the space, and the curtains are half-drawn over the windows, letting in faint traces of city light from outside.
It’s quiet—unusually quiet.
Your sister is still out with friends from earlier, which leaves the room feeling strangely peaceful compared to its usual chaotic energy.
You kick off your shoes near the door before wandering toward the couch, dropping down onto one side of it with a soft sigh.
Behind you, Finn closes the door gently and walks over before sitting down on the other end of the couch, leaving a small stretch of space between you.
For a moment neither of you says anything.
You lean back into the cushions, studying him with mild curiosity as he rubs the back of his neck—something he always seems to do when he’s nervous.
“So,” you say eventually.
“So,” he echoes.
You tilt your head slightly.
“This feels serious.”
“Yeah,” he admits.
“Should I be worried?”
“No.”
You nod thoughtfully.
“Okay good.”
Another quiet pause passes.
Then Finn exhales slowly and shifts forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Alright,” he says. “I’m just going to say this before I lose the nerve.”
You sit up slightly straighter.
“Okay.”
He glances down at his hands for a moment before continuing.
“So… when we met at Comic Con,” he begins slowly, “I thought you were cool.”
A grin tugs at your mouth.
“High praise.”
“I’m serious,” he says, looking back up at you. “And then we started texting and hanging out and it was just… easy.”
You nod faintly.
“I noticed that too.”
“And then you agreed to do the movie,” he continues, shaking his head slightly like he still can’t believe it. “Which I still think was the best day of my life.”
You laugh quietly.
“You had a cheering section.”
“They deserved it.”
His smile softens slightly before fading into something more thoughtful.
“But somewhere along the way,” he says carefully, “it stopped just being fun.”
You tilt your head.
“What do you mean?”
He meets your eyes directly now.
“I mean… I started liking you.”
Your heart gives a small, unexpected jump.
“I like you too,” you say automatically.
He shakes his head gently.
“No,” he says softly. “I mean… like liking you.”
Oh.
Your chest warms.
Finn keeps talking, the words coming faster now that he’s started.
“And I know filming together probably makes things weird,” he continues. “And we literally just filmed a kiss scene today which is probably terrible timing to bring this up, and I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything—”
You reach over and gently grab his wrist.
“Finn.”
He stops mid-sentence.
“What?”
“You’re spiraling.”
“Yeah,” he admits with a quiet laugh.
You smile.
He takes a breath before finishing.
“I just wanted to be honest,” he says. “Because if I didn’t say it, I’d keep overthinking everything. And if you don’t feel the same way that’s completely okay. Seriously. I get it. I just—”
You lean forward and kiss him.
The movement interrupts the sentence instantly.
His words cut off into a surprised breath as your lips brush his.
The kiss is brief—only a second long—before you pull back slightly.
Finn stares at you, blinking.
“…okay,” he says slowly.
You laugh softly.
“That was my answer.”
He processes that for a moment.
Then he starts laughing too.
“Okay,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s… a pretty good answer.”
You grin.
“Glad you approve.”
“I just gave this whole emotional speech and you shut me up with a kiss.”
“You were rambling.”
“Fair.”
He looks at you again, his expression softer now.
“Can I…?”
You lean forward again before he finishes the question.
The second kiss is slower.
More certain.
Finn’s hand slides gently to your waist as he pulls you closer across the couch cushions, while your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt.
Halfway through the kiss you both start smiling.
Which makes the whole thing slightly messy.
Which makes both of you laugh.
“Okay,” he murmurs between laughs, leaning his forehead against yours.
“Okay,” you echo.
Then you kiss him again.
The couch cushions shift beneath you as you both slide further back, laughing quietly when you almost lose your balance.
Finn falls back against the couch first, pulling you with him.
You land halfway on top of him, still laughing.
“This is very smooth,” you say.
“Extremely smooth.”
“Professional.”
“Very.”
You kiss him again.
Then again.
Your laughter blends with the quiet hum of the hotel room and the distant city sounds drifting through the window.
Eventually you both settle into the cushions, tangled together comfortably, still smiling.
Summary: As an Ex Broadway star you have made it clear under no circumstances will you ever step into the limelight again. But after a meet and greet at comic con and an unexpected friendship you find that maybe stepping back into the world of Hollywood isn't so bad. Especially because of a certain Canadian. (7.5K)
Part two
Warnings/Tags: Fluff, creepy director, reader's parents and manager are assholes, readers sister is a stranger things fan, Sadie and Gaten are broadway fanatics, Finn knows a thing or two about broadway.
................................................
The convention center smells faintly like popcorn, Sharpies, and the kind of warm, crowded air that only happens when thousands of people pack into one place with too much excitement and nowhere else to put it. Every few seconds the scent shifts slightly as someone nearby opens a fresh box of merch or walks past carrying a tray of food from one of the snack stands.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, leaning your shoulder against a thick concrete pillar near the entrance. The cool surface presses through the fabric of your hoodie as you watch a group of teenagers rush past in full cosplay. Their capes and plastic swords swish dangerously close to your knees as they hurry toward the doors like they’re racing to save the world instead of waiting for a panel to start.
Beside you, your sister bounces impatiently on the balls of her feet, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she groans under her breath, her voice full of barely contained energy. The way she’s moving makes it look like she might physically combust if the doors don’t open in the next thirty seconds.
You glance down at her, amused by the intensity of it all.
“You know they’re not going to start without you, right?” you say casually.
She shoots you an exaggerated look of annoyance, like you’ve just made the most offensive joke imaginable.
“Very funny.”
A grin pulls at the corner of your mouth.
Your sister clutches the laminated VIP badge hanging around her neck like it’s the most valuable thing she owns. She keeps checking it every few seconds, as if it might magically disappear if she doesn’t confirm it’s still there.
You glance down at your own matching badge. The plastic feels cool against your fingers as you tap it absentmindedly, the little lanyard swinging slightly when you move.
VIP.
Front row access.
Meet-and-greet eligible.
All thanks to you.
Or, more specifically, thanks to the person you used to be.
You still aren’t totally used to thinking about it that way.
Just a year ago, crowds like this would have been waiting for you.
The thought drifts through your mind quietly, not bitter, just… strange.
Your sister suddenly tugs on your sleeve, breaking the moment.
“Look at that Eddie cosplay.”
You follow the direction she’s pointing and spot a guy a few feet away dramatically pretending to shred an invisible guitar while someone films him on their phone. The wig he’s wearing looks like it lost a very aggressive fight with a hairdryer—wild curls sticking out in every direction.
You snort before you can stop yourself.
“Honestly,” you say, shaking your head slightly, “that wig deserves an award for commitment.”
Your sister beams like she personally styled it.
You lean your head back against the concrete pillar again, letting your gaze wander across the chaotic swirl of Comic Con around you.
It’s loud.
Bright.
Chaotic in that energetic, slightly overwhelming way.
People move everywhere—cosplayers posing for photos, fans comparing merch, groups of friends laughing loudly as they debate which panel to attend next. Staff members with lanyards and headsets weave through the crowd trying to keep everything organized.
And somehow…
It feels peaceful.
Not the quiet kind of peaceful.
But the kind where nothing is expected from you.
A year ago your mornings looked very different.
Instead of standing in line outside a convention hall wearing jeans and a hoodie, you would already be halfway through vocal warmups in a rehearsal room while a stage manager shouted reminders about places and cues.
Your days used to be scheduled down to the minute.
Dance rehearsal.
Costume fittings.
Press photos.
Matinee.
Quick change.
Evening show.
Every hour mapped out by someone else’s clipboard.
Broadway had been your whole life.
From the time you were eight years old.
Your first role had been tiny—ensemble, two lines, and one little solo moment where you stood center stage for maybe twenty seconds. At the time it had felt like the biggest thing in the world.
After that, things started moving fast.
Too fast, maybe.
Cosette.
Matilda.
Young Fiona in Shrek.
A revival of Annie.
Even a limited run in Into the Woods that critics called “astonishingly mature for her age.”
Your parents had framed every review and hung them on the wall like trophies.
Your manager used to call you “a generational talent” during interviews.
Directors loved you.
Producers adored you.
Your childhood had been dressing rooms and stage lights and applause echoing through velvet theaters.
Until the day you woke up and realized you hated it.
Not the performing.
Not really.
That part had always felt like magic.
But everything around it started to suffocate you.
The pressure.
The endless auditions.
Your parents talking about your “brand” like you were a product instead of their kid.
Your manager planning your future like it was a carefully calculated chess game.
You were seventeen when you finally told them you were done.
Your mom cried.
Your dad told you that you were making a mistake.
Your manager called it “career suicide.”
You called it breathing for the first time in years.
And then you walked away.
Now your days are a lot simpler.
School.
Driving your sister to places like this.
Picking up groceries.
Occasionally being recognized by theater kids who stare at you like they’ve just seen a ghost.
It’s quiet.
Normal.
And honestly…
You kind of love it.
“Y/N.”
You blink, snapping out of your thoughts.
Your sister is staring at you expectantly, like you’ve just missed something incredibly important.
“What?” you ask.
Her eyes light up.
“The doors are opening!”
Sure enough, a ripple of movement spreads through the crowd as security begins letting people inside. The quiet anticipation instantly explodes into chaos as the line surges forward.
Cosplayers hurry toward the entrance.
Fans squeal excitedly.
Someone nearly drops a stack of posters.
Your sister grabs your wrist without hesitation and starts dragging you along with her.
“You’re going to embarrass me if you trip,” you warn, trying not to laugh as you keep up with her pace.
“You’re going to embarrass me if you walk slow,” she fires back.
“That feels backwards.”
“You know what I mean.”
You laugh as she pulls you through the entrance and into the main convention hall.
Inside, the space opens up into something massive.
The high ceilings echo with thousands of overlapping conversations. Booths line the walls, each one packed with colorful displays—handmade pins, posters, figurines, comic books, signed memorabilia.
It’s a maze of fandom and excitement.
Your sister barely glances at any of it.
She’s completely focused.
“Panel room is this way,” she says confidently, already power-walking through the crowd.
“You’ve studied the map, haven’t you?” you ask.
“I studied the map.”
You shake your head, smiling as you follow her through the sea of people.
Eventually you reach the main panel hall where a staff member scans your VIP badges before waving you through to the reserved front section.
Your sister looks like she might explode with happiness as you take your seats.
Front row.
Right in front of the stage.
She grips your arm tightly, eyes wide.
“I cannot believe we’re this close.”
You lean back comfortably in your chair, stretching your legs out a little.
“The perks of having a former child star sister,” you say.
She grins at you immediately.
“Best decision you ever made.”
You laugh softly.
The room fills quickly as fans pour in, the energy building with every passing minute. People around you chatter excitedly, speculating about what the cast might reveal during the panel.
Behind you, someone is passionately arguing a theory about the next season.
Your sister leans closer again.
“Do you think they’ll bring everyone out?” she whispers.
“Probably.”
“Even Finn?”
You shrug.
“Pretty sure he’s part of ‘everyone.’”
She squeals quietly beside you.
You roll your eyes affectionately.
A few minutes later the lights dim slightly and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Your sister grabs your arm again, squeezing hard.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
You laugh quietly under your breath as the host walks onto the stage and begins introducing the cast.
One by one, the actors come out.
Each introduction is louder than the last.
The crowd roars, people stand, phones lift into the air to record the moment.
Then the host announces—
“And please welcome—Finn Wolfhard!”
The reaction is instant and deafening.
The crowd absolutely loses its mind.
Your sister screams like she’s just witnessed an actual miracle.
You glance up at the stage as Finn walks out, giving a slightly awkward wave while smiling at the audience. The noise seems to hit him all at once, his expression shifting between amused and overwhelmed.
He looks a little shy.
A little surprised.
And a little like he still isn’t completely used to crowds screaming his name.
You rest your chin on your hand as you watch him for a moment.
Of course you’ve seen him before.
Everyone has.
But there’s something strangely different about seeing someone in person instead of through a screen.
More real.
Less distant.
He sits down in his chair and adjusts the microphone in front of him.
And for a brief second—
His eyes flick toward the front row.
Right toward you.
He’s probably not actually looking at you.
Just scanning the crowd.
But your sister gasps dramatically beside you anyway.
“Did he just look here?”
You shrug casually.
“Probably.”
Still, as the panel begins and the cast starts answering questions, you find yourself glancing toward the stage more often than you expected.
And you can’t help thinking—
Life could definitely be worse.
................................................
The meet-and-greet area is somehow even louder than the main hall.
The massive room hums with the kind of chaotic energy that only happens when hundreds of excited fans are squeezed into one place with the promise of meeting their favorite actors. Metal barriers snake back and forth across the floor to organize the lines, forming a maze of zig-zagging queues that seem to stretch forever. Every few seconds someone shrieks in excitement when it’s finally their turn, the sound echoing up toward the high convention center ceiling.
Convention staff wearing bright badges and headsets dart around the space like air-traffic controllers, waving people forward, checking wristbands, reminding everyone to keep the lines moving. Somewhere nearby a camera flashes. Someone drops a poster tube and scrambles to pick it up. The air smells faintly like popcorn, plastic poster sleeves, and the sugary coffee drinks people are clutching like survival fuel.
Your sister stands beside you gripping the strap of her bag with both hands, her knuckles white like she might actually float away if she lets go. Her entire body vibrates with anticipation.
“Oh my god,” she whispers again, the words breathless and awestruck.
You lean casually against the barrier, one elbow hooked over the cool metal rail while you sip from the iced coffee you grabbed on the way over. The plastic cup rattles softly with ice as you take a slow sip, watching the chaos around you with mild amusement.
“You’ve said that already,” you point out.
“I know,” she says quickly, still staring ahead at the lines like she’s witnessing a miracle in progress. “But it keeps being true.”
A small grin tugs at your mouth.
The line inches forward and she bounces lightly on the balls of her feet, barely able to contain herself.
Suddenly she turns toward you, pointing a finger in your direction like she’s laying down an official rule.
“You’re coming in the pictures.”
You immediately shake your head.
“Nope.”
“Yes.”
“Nope.”
She narrows her eyes at you in a way that makes it very clear she’s prepared to argue this to the death.
“I did not drag you to Comic Con,” she says slowly, “for you to lurk in the background like a mysterious bodyguard.”
You lift your cup again, completely unbothered.
“I am a very supportive mysterious bodyguard,” you reply.
“You’re getting in the pictures.”
“I’ll take them,” you offer calmly. “I’m great at angles.”
She gasps like you’ve personally insulted her.
“I want one with you!”
“You’re the fan,” you remind her, gesturing toward the massive banners overhead and the hundreds of people in line. “This is your moment.”
She crosses her arms stubbornly, clearly refusing to budge.
“You’re in at least one picture.”
You sigh dramatically, dragging out the moment as if the decision is incredibly difficult.
“…Fine. One.”
Her face immediately lights up in triumph.
“Perfect.”
The line shuffles forward again, bringing you closer to the first table. A large banner hangs overhead with bright bold letters that read:
GATEN MATARAZZO
Your sister inhales sharply like she’s preparing to dive underwater.
“Oh my god it’s happening.”
You nudge her gently forward with your shoulder.
“Go on.”
Up close, Gaten looks exactly the way he does in interviews—open expression, big friendly smile, greeting each fan with genuine enthusiasm instead of the tired politeness you’d expect after hours of meet-and-greets.
When it’s finally your sister’s turn she nearly forgets how to function as a human being.
“Hi—um—hi—”
Her voice cracks slightly on the second word.
Gaten laughs kindly, clearly used to this exact reaction.
“Hey! How’s it going?”
That simple greeting seems to unlock her ability to speak again. Words immediately start tumbling out as she launches into an enthusiastic explanation about how much she loves the show, gesturing wildly with her hands while she talks.
You hang back slightly behind her, hands tucked into the pockets of your hoodie. Your sunglasses are pushed up onto your head and your baseball cap sits low over your eyes—your usual please don’t recognize me outfit.
You’ve gotten pretty good at blending in.
He signs the poster she brought, asks where she’s from, and chats with her for a minute before the photographer motions toward the backdrop area.
“Alright, picture time.”
Your sister immediately turns and points at you.
“She’s with me!”
You lift a hand in a small wave.
“Hi.”
Gaten smiles easily.
“Hey!”
There’s no pause. No double take. No hint of recognition.
Just a friendly interaction with another fan.
Perfect.
The three of you step into position for the photo. Your sister beams in the middle like she just won the lottery while the camera flashes twice.
A moment later you’re already stepping aside as the next group moves forward.
Your sister practically vibrates as you walk toward the next line.
“OH MY GOD.”
“You already used that one,” you remind her.
“HE TALKED TO ME.”
“That is the point of the meet-and-greet.”
She grabs your arm, eyes wide with disbelief.
“You were so calm!”
You shrug.
“I’ve been around actors before.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically.
“Broadway actors. Not Stranger Things actors.”
You laugh quietly under your breath.
The next line stretches far longer than the first. The banner above it reads:
SADIE SINK
It wraps halfway across the meet-and-greet area, fans packed shoulder-to-shoulder with posters, Funko Pops, and autograph books.
Your sister’s excitement deflates slightly when she sees the length of the queue.
“Oh…”
You check the time on your phone. Nearby, a convention coordinator is already warning people that the line might get cut before everyone gets through.
You nudge your sister gently.
“It’s okay. Let’s keep moving.”
She sighs dramatically but nods.
“I guess.”
Secretly, you feel a small wave of relief.
Sadie would absolutely recognize you.
You did a charity gala together three years ago when you were still working on Broadway. The two of you spent half the evening talking about theater kids, vocal warmups, and the shared trauma of eight-show weeks.
There’s no chance she wouldn’t remember.
Luckily your sister is too busy pouting about the line to notice the subtle relief on your face as you drift toward the next table.
This one is somehow even more chaotic.
The banner overhead reads:
FINN WOLFHARD
Despite the crowd, the line is moving quickly. Fans step forward for photos while staff gently usher them along so the queue doesn’t completely collapse.
Your sister grabs your arm again as you join the line.
“I’m going to die.”
“You’re not,” you say calmly.
“I might.”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
You smirk slightly.
“You’ll survive.”
The line slowly inches forward until you can finally see him clearly.
Finn sits behind the table leaning slightly forward as he talks to fans, his posture relaxed but attentive. His hair is a little messy from the long day, and every few minutes he pushes it back with his hand before the next photo.
Someone says something that makes him laugh, and the sound carries easily across the barrier.
Your sister’s grip on your arm tightens.
“Oh my god.”
You, on the other hand, feel surprisingly relaxed.
He probably won’t recognize you.
You did Broadway. He does TV and movies. Completely different circles.
And even if he did recognize you, it’s not like you’re still famous. You’ve been off the stage for over a year now.
You adjust your cap slightly as the line moves again.
Soon it’s your turn.
Your sister approaches the table like she’s approaching royalty.
“Hi,” she breathes.
Finn immediately smiles.
“Hey.”
The photographer gestures toward the photo backdrop.
“Alright guys, step over here.”
Your sister turns to you, whispering quickly.
“Funny picture.”
You nod.
“Funny picture.”
The photographer looks between the three of you.
“What are we thinking?”
Your sister looks at Finn.
“Something chaotic.”
Finn grins instantly.
“I like chaotic.”
He studies the two of you for a second before suddenly pointing at you.
“Okay—wait—get on my back.”
You blink.
“Excuse me?”
He gestures again, clearly amused.
“Piggyback. Trust me.”
Your sister immediately crouches down in front of him like she’s already part of the plan.
You laugh.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Exactly,” Finn says.
You step closer, climbing carefully onto his back while trying not to laugh. He steadies you easily, hands bracing your legs to keep you balanced.
“Alright,” the photographer calls. “Ready!”
You lean forward slightly so your face is visible over Finn’s shoulder while your sister throws up the most chaotic double peace sign imaginable.
The camera flashes.
Then again.
Right before the second shot—
Finn tilts his head slightly.
You’re close enough now that he can actually see your face clearly.
He squints.
“Wait…”
You freeze just a little.
“You look really familiar,” he says slowly.
Your stomach drops.
Before you can respond—
Your sister blurts out proudly, “She used to be on Broadway!”
You close your eyes briefly.
Traitor.
Finn’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Wait—seriously?”
You slide off his back, laughing nervously.
“Formerly.”
“Wait, no—hold on,” he says, pointing at you. “I know you.”
You shrug.
“Maybe?”
Then suddenly his expression lights up.
“Oh my god,” he says, snapping his fingers. “You were Matilda!”
Your sister gasps loudly.
“I KNEW IT!”
You laugh helplessly.
“Guilty.”
Finn leans back in his chair looking completely delighted.
“Dude—Gaten and Sadie are going to flip when I tell them.”
You immediately gesture to your hoodie and hat.
“That’s exactly why the disguise exists.”
He laughs.
“That’s amazing.”
The photographer clears their throat politely from behind the camera.
“Last shot, guys.”
You quickly reposition for one more photo. This time it’s simple—your sister standing in the middle while you stand on one side and Finn on the other.
Flash.
Flash.
The coordinator immediately steps forward.
“Alright guys, we’ve got to keep the line moving.”
Finn turns back toward you like he’s about to say something else.
But the next group is already stepping forward.
Your sister grabs your hand instantly.
“THANK YOU!” she blurts as she drags you away.
You wave over your shoulder.
“Bye, Finn.”
He’s still half-smiling, like he was about to continue the conversation.
Then the crowd swallows you both as your sister pulls you deeper into the convention floor.
“Oh my god,” she says breathlessly. “OH MY GOD.”
You laugh.
“I thought you already used that one.”
“I didn’t know he knew you!”
“I didn’t think he would,” you admit.
She opens the photo preview on her phone and squeals loudly.
“This is the best day of my life.”
You glance back once toward the meet-and-greet area.
Finn is already greeting the next fan.
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The hotel room is quiet in that strange, insulated way hotel rooms always are, like the outside world has been wrapped in layers of carpet and thick walls. The air conditioner hums softly in the corner, steady and low, and the curtains are half-drawn across the wide window, letting in a warm orange glow from the late afternoon sun. The light stretches across the carpet in a long rectangle, fading gradually as it reaches the opposite wall.
Somewhere out in the hallway, the dull clatter of suitcase wheels rolls over the carpet before fading into the distance. A door shuts a few rooms down. After that, the hallway goes quiet again.
Inside your room, everything feels strangely calm after the overwhelming chaos of the convention center. Hours ago you were surrounded by thousands of people, flashing lights, screaming fans, and endless noise. Now the only sounds are the soft hum of the AC and the faint tapping of your sister’s phone screen.
You sit curled in the desk chair near the window, one leg tucked beneath you and the other dangling loosely toward the floor. Your phone is wedged between your shoulder and ear as you stare absently at the fading sunlight outside.
Behind you, your sister is sprawled across the hotel bed like she’s collapsed after running a marathon. She’s still wearing her Comic Con T-shirt and hasn’t even bothered to take off the lanyard with her badge. One arm is flung over her head while the other holds her phone inches from her face. She scrolls through Instagram with the intense focus of someone reliving the best day of their life.
Every few seconds she quietly giggles to herself.
You ignore it.
On the other end of the call, your manager is deep in the middle of a sentence, speaking with the careful patience of someone who has already explained something multiple times and still hasn’t gotten the answer they want.
“—and I’m telling you this casting director specifically asked about you,” they continue. “They’re doing a limited Broadway revival and they want recognizable names attached to it. You would be perfect for—”
“No.”
You don’t even hesitate.
The word slips out immediately, instinctive and firm.
Your manager sighs into the phone like you’ve personally ruined their entire week.
“Y/N—”
“I told you to stop sending me roles,” you say, rubbing your temple with your free hand.
“You’re wasting an opportunity.”
“I’m not.”
“This industry does not wait for people.”
“I know.”
“You worked your entire childhood to get where you are.”
“I know.”
“People would kill for your connections.”
“I know.”
Each answer comes out calmer than the last, but the tension in your shoulders builds with every sentence.
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.
Your manager exhales slowly, clearly trying to regroup. When they speak again their voice has changed slightly—softer, more persuasive.
“You don’t even have to commit yet,” they say carefully. “Just audition.”
You lean back in the chair, letting your head fall against the backrest as you stare up at the ceiling. The overhead light fixture stares back at you like it’s personally judging the entire conversation.
“I’m not auditioning.”
“Why not?”
The question hangs there for a moment.
Because the thought of standing under stage lights again makes your chest feel tight.
Because every time you open a script you can hear your parents talking about ticket sales and press coverage.
Because the last year has been the first time in your life that you’ve felt even remotely normal.
But explaining all of that would take too long. And honestly, you’re not sure they’d hear it anyway.
So instead you settle for the simplest answer possible.
“I just don’t want to.”
Your manager exhales sharply.
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe.”
“You could still—”
A sudden, high-pitched scream cuts across the room.
You jerk upright in the chair, the movement nearly knocking the phone out of place.
“What the—”
Behind you, your sister launches off the bed like someone just set off a fire alarm.
“OH MY GOD!”
You pull the phone away from your ear, twisting around in the chair to stare at her.
“Hang on,” you mutter into the phone.
“What’s going on?” your manager asks.
“I have to go.”
“Y/N—”
“Bye.”
You hang up before they can protest and spin fully around in your chair.
Your sister is now standing on the bed, staring down at her phone like it’s just delivered life-changing news. Her mouth is wide open and she looks like she might actually start jumping.
“What happened?” you ask quickly, pushing yourself out of the chair.
“LOOK!”
You rush over.
“What? Did someone leak the finale or something?”
She shoves the phone directly into your face.
On the screen is her Instagram post from earlier that day.
The photo.
The ridiculous piggyback pose with Finn.
Your sister crouched in front flashing chaotic peace signs while you cling to Finn’s back trying not to laugh.
You recognize it immediately.
But then your eyes drift upward.
At the very top of the screen—
Finn Wolfhard added this to his story.
You blink once.
“Oh.”
Your sister grabs your shoulders and shakes you.
“OH??”
“That’s normal,” you say, shrugging. “Actors repost fan photos all the time.”
She stares at you like you’ve completely lost your mind.
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“That’s Finn Wolfhard.”
“Yes.”
“He reposted my post.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not normal!”
You open your mouth to respond—
And then your own phone starts vibrating violently on the nightstand.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
It sounds like a small earthquake.
You frown slightly.
“Okay that’s weird.”
Walking over, you pick up the phone, already assuming you know exactly what’s happening.
Option one: your parents somehow saw the photo and are calling to ask questions.
Option two: your manager is calling back to yell at you for hanging up.
But when you unlock the screen—
It’s neither.
Your notifications are exploding.
Instagram alerts flood the lock screen, stacking over each other faster than you can read them. Comment after comment after comment appears in rapid succession.
Your eyebrows knit together as you open the app.
Your sister immediately leans over your shoulder.
“Oh my god.”
Her voice drops to a whisper like she’s watching something unbelievable unfold.
Your post—well technically your sister’s post—is absolutely flooded with comments.
But most of them aren’t even directed at her.
They’re about you.
WAIT ISN’T THAT Y/N L/N???
No way omg I grew up watching her on Broadway
How does she know Finn???
IS THAT ACTUALLY HER???
WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THIS???
You stare at the screen slowly, processing.
“…why are they talking about me?”
Your sister suddenly goes very still behind you.
You glance sideways.
She’s avoiding eye contact.
A horrible realization begins to form.
You slowly turn the phone toward her.
“What did you do?”
She winces.
“…nothing?”
You narrow your eyes.
She lifts a shaky finger and points weakly toward the caption of her post.
You scroll up.
And there it is.
Tagged.
Your account.
Right under the photo.
You close your eyes briefly.
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it would be cute!” she blurts quickly.
“You tagged me.”
“I didn’t think people would notice!”
“People always notice!”
Your phone buzzes again.
And again.
And again.
More comments.
More notifications.
You groan and drop onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through your hair.
“This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.”
Your sister sits beside you, looking a little guilty but still undeniably thrilled.
“…it’s kind of cool though.”
You stare at her flatly.
“Not helpful.”
You start tapping through the settings on your phone, trying to silence the avalanche of notifications.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Your phone refuses to calm down.
“Okay that’s getting muted,” you mutter.
You’re halfway through turning notifications off when another alert appears.
This one isn’t a comment.
It’s a message request.
Your finger pauses.
Your sister leans closer again immediately.
“What?”
You tilt the phone slightly so you can read it more clearly.
The username at the top is extremely familiar.
finnwolfhardofficial
Your sister gasps so loudly you’re honestly surprised the people in the next room don’t hear it.
“OPEN IT.”
You stare at the message for a second.
Your heart does something strange in your chest.
“Relax,” you say, trying to sound casual.
“I am relaxed!”
“You’re not relaxed.”
“I’M VERY RELAXED.”
Finally you tap the message.
The conversation opens.
Finn’s message is short.
Finn:
Hey — sorry if reposting the photo caused chaos 😅
You stare at the screen for a moment.
Your sister grabs your arm.
“What does it say??”
You tilt the phone toward her.
She squeals again.
“You have to answer him!”
You stare at the message a little longer, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Then you slowly begin typing.
Life, apparently, just got a little less quiet.
................................................
The café is small, warm, and smells strongly of espresso and cinnamon the moment you walk through the door.
It’s the kind of place that clearly tries to look like it doesn’t care about aesthetics but somehow ends up looking perfectly curated anyway. Plants hang from hooks in the windows, their vines trailing lazily down the glass. Mismatched ceramic mugs are stacked behind the counter. A chalkboard menu lists drinks in looping handwriting that looks suspiciously too neat to be accidental.
Indie music hums softly through speakers that sound like they’ve probably been there since 2007.
You sit across from Finn in a booth by the window, your hands wrapped loosely around a mug you haven’t actually taken a sip from yet. The ceramic is warm beneath your fingers.
Outside the glass, people pass by in slow waves—dog walkers, joggers, couples pushing strollers. Normal life continues on the sidewalk completely unaware that your morning started with a DM from a guy whose face is currently plastered on posters at the convention center down the street.
Your sister nearly fainted when you told her where you were going.
You can still hear her voice echoing in your head from the moment you stepped out of the hotel room.
“YOU’RE GETTING COFFEE WITH FINN WOLFHARD?”
Now here you are.
And strangely…
It doesn’t feel that weird.
Finn leans back slightly in his seat, fingers loosely curled around his own coffee cup. He studies you with a curious expression for a moment before squinting slightly.
“You know,” he says, “I’m still kind of shocked you just… left Broadway.”
You shrug one shoulder casually.
“People leave jobs all the time.”
“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “But not that job.”
A quiet laugh escapes you.
“I promise you the world kept spinning.”
“Your manager probably disagrees.”
You snort.
“You have no idea.”
He grins at that.
“So that’s who you were arguing with in the hotel?”
You freeze for half a second.
“…you could hear that?”
“You mentioned it in your text.”
Right.
You glance down at the table briefly before answering.
“They keep sending me auditions.”
“And you keep saying no.”
“Pretty much.”
Finn studies you for a moment, curious but not pushy.
“What made you stop?”
You’ve been asked that question before.
Usually by reporters.
Usually with microphones shoved in your face while they wait for a dramatic headline.
But sitting here in a cozy booth with coffee warming your hands and sunlight pouring through the window…
It feels different.
You exhale slowly.
“It wasn’t one thing,” you say quietly.
“It usually isn’t,” he replies.
You trace the rim of your mug with your thumb.
“I started when I was eight,” you explain. “Which sounds really cool when people say it, but it also means I didn’t really… choose it.”
Finn nods slowly.
“I get that.”
“My parents loved it. My manager loved it. Producers loved it.” A small smile crosses your face. “Everyone loved it.”
“Except you?”
You shake your head gently.
“I loved performing,” you clarify. “That part was real. Being on stage, hearing the orchestra start, the audience going quiet right before the show begins…” You pause, remembering. “That part felt like magic.”
“So what changed?”
You look out the window for a moment before answering.
“The pressure.”
Finn doesn’t interrupt.
“Every role had to be bigger than the last one. Every performance had to be perfect. My parents talked about contracts more than they talked about school.” A quiet laugh slips out. “My manager used to schedule interviews during my lunch breaks.”
He winces slightly.
“Yeah… that sounds familiar.”
You nod slowly.
“And then there was this one director.”
Finn’s expression changes immediately.
Not alarmed.
But attentive.
“What happened?”
You take your first sip of coffee, mostly to give yourself a second to think.
“He wasn’t technically doing anything illegal,” you say carefully. “But he was weird.”
“Weird how?”
You shrug slightly.
“Too interested in rehearsing alone. Too many ‘notes’ about how I should look. He kept talking about how I needed to grow up faster if I wanted serious roles.”
Finn’s jaw tightens almost immediately.
You continue calmly.
“I was seventeen. And I remember sitting in rehearsal one day thinking… I don’t actually have to be here.”
The realization still feels strange when you say it out loud.
“So I left.”
Finn sits quietly for a moment.
Then he nods.
“That’s a pretty good reason.”
You shrug again, trying to lighten the mood.
“Also I was tired of vocal warmups at 7 a.m.”
He laughs.
“That’s fair.”
For a moment the conversation settles into a comfortable silence.
Then Finn leans forward slightly.
“Have you ever thought about doing film instead?”
You blink.
“Film?”
“Yeah.”
You shake your head almost immediately.
“No.”
“Why not?”
You gesture vaguely.
“Same industry. Same people. Same problems.”
“Not always,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow.
“Finn, you literally work in it.”
He smiles sheepishly.
“Okay, fair.”
“But honestly,” he continues, “I think you’d be really good at it.”
You laugh.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do a little.”
“You saw me for thirty seconds at a meet-and-greet.”
“And I grew up watching Matilda,” he counters.
“That doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself.
“I’m happy being off-screen for a while.”
He nods easily.
“Fair.”
Another comfortable silence settles between you.
Then Finn glances toward the window.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“There’s a park like two blocks away.”
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“Are you suggesting we go outside like normal people?”
“Crazy concept, I know.”
A grin spreads across your face.
“Alright.”
................................................
The park is bright and breezy in the kind of effortless way late afternoons sometimes are. Sunlight filters through the leaves overhead, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the winding path. The air smells faintly like cut grass and warm pavement, and somewhere in the distance a dog barks while kids laugh near the playground.
You and Finn walk side by side along the path, moving at an easy pace that suggests neither of you is in any particular hurry to get anywhere. The quiet rhythm of your footsteps blends with the soft rustling of the trees overhead.
A few people pass by—joggers, someone walking a golden retriever, a couple pushing a stroller—but no one seems to pay much attention to the two of you.
Which is probably because Finn is very obviously attempting to be incognito.
He’s wearing a beanie pulled low over his hair and a pair of sunglasses that definitely belong more to a celebrity disguise than an afternoon stroll. The whole thing would almost be convincing if he didn’t look slightly too pleased with himself about it.
You bump your shoulder lightly into his as you walk.
“Incognito,” you say dryly.
Finn glances sideways at you, immediately defensive.
“Hey,” he says. “It works.”
You give him a skeptical look.
“Sure it does.”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to argue further, then abruptly pauses mid-step.
“Oh wait.”
You glance over at him.
“What?”
He’s already pulling his phone from his pocket, grinning like he’s just remembered something important.
“I need proof.”
You blink.
“Proof of what?”
He looks at you like the answer should be obvious.
“That I met you.”
You laugh.
“You already have the Comic Con photo.”
“Yeah,” he says quickly, tapping his screen. “But Gaten and Sadie won’t believe me.”
Your eyebrows slowly rise.
“You’re serious.”
“Very.”
Before you can question that logic any further, Finn suddenly lifts his phone up between you.
“Quick—come here.”
You instinctively lean a little closer.
“Why?”
“Picture.”
The camera flips around just as you lean in toward him, and the second the phone lifts—
You turn your head and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
It’s fast. Playful. Completely impulsive.
And very intentional.
Because you know exactly the kind of chaos it’s about to cause.
The camera snaps.
Finn freezes for about half a second.
Not dramatically. Just enough that you can feel the tiny moment where his brain catches up with what just happened.
But by the time that moment passes, the photo has already been sent.
You see his thumbs move quickly across the screen.
The image shows the exact moment the camera captured: you leaning in with a grin, kissing his cheek while he looks halfway between surprised and amused.
Underneath it, Finn typed:
Guess who I’m hanging out with.
Three little dots appear on the screen almost instantly.
Then another message.
Then another.
Finn’s phone suddenly begins vibrating nonstop in his hand.
You burst out laughing.
“Oh my god.”
He looks down at the screen, absolutely delighted.
“Yep,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. “They’re losing their minds.”
“What are they saying?”
He scrolls quickly, reading one out loud.
“Gaten says ‘NO WAY THAT’S NOT FAIR.’”
You laugh harder.
“Sadie just sent twelve question marks,” he adds.
You shake your head at him.
“You’re evil.”
“Worth it,” he replies immediately.
You keep walking down the path together, the late afternoon sun slowly dipping lower through the trees. The golden light filters through the branches and stretches long shadows across the path ahead of you.
As you turn a corner in the trail, Finn casually rests his hand against the small of your back to guide you around a cyclist passing the other direction.
The gesture is simple.
Natural.
Easy.
But your brain notices it immediately.
Your cheeks warm slightly before you even realize what’s happening.
You suddenly become very aware of the warmth of his hand through the fabric of your shirt.
Very aware of how close he’s walking beside you.
You try very hard not to think about it.
Very hard not to smile too much.
Very hard not to blush.
Which, unfortunately, only makes the whole thing worse.
Finn glances over at you after a few seconds.
“You okay?”
“Yep,” you answer a little too quickly.
He smiles faintly, clearly unconvinced.
But he doesn’t move his hand.
And neither of you rush the walk back.
................................................
Three months after Comic Con, texting Finn has somehow become part of your daily routine in a way that feels both gradual and completely inevitable.
It doesn’t start with anything dramatic.
At first it’s just small things.
A meme he sends you at midnight because it reminded him of something you said earlier.
A blurry photo of a weird street sign he found while walking around Vancouver.
You sending him a picture of your sister stealing your hoodie for the third time that week.
But little by little the messages start filling more of your day.
Soon it becomes normal.
Normal to wake up and see a “good morning :)” text waiting on your phone.
Normal to send him voice notes complaining about your homework or something dumb your sister did.
Normal to hear your phone buzz across the room and somehow already know it’s him before you even check.
One evening you’re sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, surrounded by stacks of old Broadway programs your mom recently mailed you “for sentimental reasons.”
The piles are only half organized.
Which is mostly because you keep getting distracted flipping through them.
Across the room, your sister is sprawled across your bed with a notebook open in front of her. Technically she’s doing homework.
Realistically she’s staring at her phone.
Your own phone buzzes beside you.
You glance down automatically.
Finn.
You smile before you even open the message.
Finn:
Okay I have a crazy proposition
You squint slightly at the screen.
That wording is suspicious.
You start typing back.
Define crazy.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Then disappears.
Then comes back again.
You grin slightly to yourself.
He’s clearly overthinking whatever he’s about to say.
Finally another message appears.
Finn:
Before I say it you have to promise not to shoot it down immediately
You lean back against the bed frame behind you.
Your sister peeks over the edge of the mattress, spotting the expression on your face.
“What’s that face?”
You glance up briefly.
“Finn’s being dramatic again.”
Her eyes light up instantly.
“Ooooh.”
You ignore her and type back.
That depends on how crazy it is.
Three dots appear again.
Then the next message pops up.
Finn:
Promise first
You roll your eyes slightly.
Finn.
Almost immediately—
Finn:
Promise
You sigh.
Fine. I promise not to immediately shoot it down.
This time the typing bubble appears instantly.
Finn:
Okay so
There’s a short pause.
Then another message.
Finn:
I’m making a movie
Your eyebrows lift a little.
You already knew he was working on something, but he’s been annoyingly mysterious about the details.
That’s exciting.
Finn responds immediately.
Yeah but that’s not the proposition.
You narrow your eyes slightly at the screen.
Here it comes.
The next message appears.
Finn:
I want you to be in it
You stare at the words for a full second.
“…no.”
Your sister immediately sits upright on the bed.
“What?”
You shake your head, already typing.
No.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Finn:
WAIT
You laugh quietly.
Finn I literally promised not to shoot it down immediately and I still made it like four seconds.
Your phone buzzes again.
Finn:
Okay listen
Another message appears right after.
Finn:
It’s small
You hesitate.
Another message.
Finn:
Like really small
Then—
Finn:
And if you really hate the idea I’ll drop it
You stare at the screen for a moment.
Behind you, your sister slowly scoots closer on the bed.
“What did he ask?”
You glance up.
“He wants me to be in a movie.”
Her eyes widen instantly.
“WHAT.”
“I already said no.”
She throws a pillow at you.
“WHY.”
You dodge it easily.
“Because I don’t act anymore?”
“That was Broadway!”
“This is also acting!”
Your phone buzzes again.
You glance down.
Finn:
You don’t even have to say yes
Another message appears beneath it.
Finn:
Just read the script maybe?
You pause.
Reading a script isn’t the same as acting.
Reading a script is harmless.
Right?
You type slowly.
Send it.
There’s a long pause.
Then suddenly your phone lights up with three messages in a row.
Finn:
WAIT REALLY
Finn:
YOU SAID MAYBE
Finn:
HOLY—
Your phone rings immediately.
You answer before the first buzz finishes.
“Hello?”
You barely get the word out before Finn’s voice explodes through the speaker.
“SHE SAID MAYBE!”
In the background you hear a chorus of loud cheering.
Actual cheering.
You burst out laughing.
“Are you in a stadium?”
“No we’re in my apartment,” Finn says, breathless. “Everyone heard it.”
“Everyone?”
“Yeah.”
You hear someone yelling somewhere behind him.
“WHO SAID MAYBE?”
“HER!” Finn shouts back, away from the phone.
More cheering erupts.
You cover your face with your hand, laughing harder.
“This is so embarrassing.”
“IT’S A HUGE WIN,” someone yells.
You shake your head.
“Was that Gaten?”
There’s a small pause.
“…maybe.”
You sigh dramatically.
“You people are ridiculous.”
Finn comes back to the phone, voice calmer now.
“Okay but seriously,” he says. “Just read it.”
“What’s it called?”
“Hm?”
“The movie.”
“Oh,” he says. “It’s called Hell of a Summer.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s a horror comedy.”
“Even worse.”
He laughs.
“I’m sending it right now.”
Your phone buzzes again as the script file arrives.
You glance down at it.
Dozens of pages.
Your sister leans over your shoulder instantly.
“OPEN IT.”
You shake your head slightly.
“I’m going to read it,” you tell Finn.
“And?”
“And then we’ll see.”
There’s a quiet pause before he responds.
“…that’s the best answer I could’ve hoped for.”
You smile slightly.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Okay.”
“And tell your cheering section to calm down.”
“No promises.”
You end the call and open the script file.
Your sister sits beside you on the floor now, practically vibrating with excitement.
“This is insane,” she whispers.
You scroll to the first page.
At the top, in bold letters, the title sits alone on the page.
Summary: A celebration of your relationship with Finn directed by who else but himself!
Warnings/Tags: Finn Wolfhard is a simp, fluff, they are in love, some angst if you squint, they broke up for a bit, Sadie being a cutie, gaten is a mess, thank god for Disney magic.
*****************
The camera clicks on.
There’s a soft shuffle, a quiet breath, and then Finn Wolfhard, age twenty-two, leans back into the couch like he’s trying very hard to act normal.
He fails immediately.
“Okay. Um. Hi.”
He runs a hand through his hair, glancing behind the camera like someone might walk in and catch him being sentimental. The living room lights are warm, familiar. Their house. The house. There’s a nervous smile tugging at his mouth that makes him look seventeen again.
“If you’re watching this,” he starts, voice steadier now, “then… hopefully you’re my fiancée.”
He winces slightly.
“Actually, no. That’s wrong. The first time you saw this you were not my fiancée.”
He exhales a quiet laugh.
“So. Timeline clarification. This intro? I’m recording it after you saw the raw version. At your twenty-first birthday. You cried. A lot. I cried. Also a lot. It was very embarrassing for me, personally. The crying not the video itself”
He shifts forward, elbows on his knees, more serious now.
“But when this gets posted—if everything goes according to plan—you’ll be my fiancée. I hope. God, I really hope.”
His expression softens completely.
“I love you. You know that. But I wanted it on camera. For the record.”
There’s a beat. The kind that feels heavy in the best way.
“I’ve been filming since we were kids. Eleven and twelve. Behind-the-scenes stuff, stupid jokes, hotel rooms, car rides, random 3 a.m. thoughts. It was supposed to be this big commemoration of our time on Stranger Things. Like a ‘look how far we’ve come’ kind of thing.”
He smiles, shaking his head.
“And then I started going through the footage.”
A quiet laugh escapes him.
“Turns out like… ninety percent of it is just you.”
He looks down, almost shy.
“You stealing my camera. You asleep on my shoulder in makeup trailers. You ranting about things that made no sense at two in the morning. You existing. Just… existing.”
He looks back into the lens, eyes bright.
“So I made this for you instead.”
A small, hopeful grin.
“For the girl who thinks she’s just been in the background of my life. Spoiler alert—you’ve been the whole thing.”
He swallows, emotion flickering across his face.
“So yeah. This is dedicated to my favorite person. The girl who, when she first sees this, won’t be my fiancée yet… but hopefully, by the time the world sees it, will be.”
He leans forward and reaches for the camera.
“I love you. Always have.”
The screen wobbles slightly as his fingers brush the lens.
“And I always will.”
*****************
The screen flickers from black to grainy handheld footage.
The date stamp in the corner is slightly off-center. The audio crackles.
A long folding table. Stacks of scripts. Nervous energy buzzing in the room.
The camera zooms in—badly—on an eleven-year-old girl sitting at the table, legs swinging just slightly off the chair. She’s focused, brow furrowed, carefully flipping through pages like the papers might disappear if she moves too fast.
Behind the camera, twelve-year-old Finn whispers loudly.
“This,” he says with mock seriousness, “is (Y/N) (L/N). She plays Carly.”
The girl looks up, startled. Big eyes. Immediately aware of the lens.
“Finn,” she hisses, half embarrassed, half laughing.
“Say hi,” he insists.
She presses her lips together like she’s deciding if this is worth it, then gives a small, awkward wave to the camera. “Hi.”
There’s a beat.
“What are you doing?” she asks, squinting at him.
“Commemorating,” Finn replies confidently.
She stares at him.
“…What does that mean?”
He pauses. The camera dips for a second like he’s thinking very hard.
“It means,” he says slowly, “I’m recording stuff so we can look back at it when we’re old and famous and be like, ‘Whoa. We were so small.’”
Her eyes widen slightly. “We’re small now?”
He zooms in dramatically on her face.
“Yes.”
She snorts and swats at the camera. “Stop.”
“Okay,” he says, regaining his faux-documentary voice. “For historical purposes, make a silly face.”
“What? No.”
“For history.”
She sighs like this is the most inconvenient request of her life.
“…Fine.”
She scrunches her face up ridiculously—crossed eyes, puffed cheeks, tongue sticking out halfway—and the camera shakes because Finn is laughing so hard.
“Perfect,” he wheezes. “That’s going in the archives.”
Right then, another head pops into frame from the side—
Gaten grins at the camera and waves enthusiastically.
“Hi, internet!” he announces, even though none of them know if the internet will ever see this.
(Y/N) immediately drops her silly face and hides behind her script, mortified.
Finn keeps filming anyway.
“See?” he says proudly. “Commemorating.”
*****************
The footage cuts in mid-laugh.
The inside of a cramped trailer. The lighting is yellow and too bright, scripts and empty water bottles scattered everywhere. A twelve-year-old (Y/N) is cross-legged on the little couch, absentmindedly braiding and unbraiding a piece of her own hair.
Behind the camera, thirteen-year-old Finn clears his throat dramatically.
“Interview time.”
She squints at him. “Why.”
“Because it’s important,” he insists. “State your name and current activity.”
She rolls her eyes but plays along. “(Y/N) (L/N). Waiting to be called to set.”
“Correct. And what are we filming today?”
She straightens suddenly, wiggling her shoulders in a ridiculous little dance. “Wrap dayyyy.”
Finn laughs, the camera shaking. “That was aggressive.”
“It’s exciting!” she defends.
He adjusts the frame so they’re both visible. “Okay. Serious question. What do you think is going to come from this show?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she leans back into the couch, thinking in a way that looks very big for someone so small.
“I mean… I hope people like it,” she says finally. “That would be cool.”
A beat.
“But mostly I hope we’re, like… lifelong friends.”
There’s something so simple and certain about the way she says it that even the camera seems to steady.
Finn is quiet for a second.
Then he flips the camera toward himself.
“Wow,” he says softly. “Deep.”
She throws a pillow at him.
He grins at the lens. “Okay. I will update the camera later after wrap.”
The screen fades to black.
The footage returns in the same trailer, but it’s darker now. Quieter. End-of-day tired.
The camera is angled slightly wrong, like it’s been set down in a hurry.
On the couch, (Y/N) is completely passed out. Curled up, one arm hanging off the edge, still in half of her costume.
Finn’s whisper fills the room as he adjusts the tripod.
“Update,” he says quietly, trying not to laugh. “She’s asleep.”
He moves into frame beside Gaten, who’s already biting his lip to keep from laughing.
“But not for long,” Finn adds mischievously.
Finn claps loudly and shouts, “WRAP DAY!”
(Y/N) jolts upright with a gasp, disoriented, and immediately rolls off the couch with a loud thump.
The camera wobbles violently.
“Oh my God—” Finn drops to his knees. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry—oh my God—”
Finn is half laughing, half horrified as he helps her sit up. “I didn’t think you’d fall—are you hurt? That was my fault. That was totally my fault.”
Gaten lunges for the camera.
“Turn it off, turn it off—”
The footage cuts abruptly to black mid-chaos.
*****************
The screen comes back in a blur of flashing lights.
Voices everywhere. Cameras clicking. A red carpet stretching out under bright spotlights.
The footage is shaky and overexcited.
“We have officially been reunited,” thirteen-year-old Finn announces dramatically from behind the camera. “The squad is back.”
He spins the camera too fast, nearly blinding the lens with flashes before zeroing in—
Right into (Y/N)’s face.
She’s mid-sentence, animatedly talking to Millie, hands moving as she speaks. The second she realizes the camera is inches from her nose, she freezes.
“Finn,” she groans. “Knock it off.”
He zooms in even closer.
“Say something inspiring,” he insists.
“I will inspire you to put that camera down,” she mutters.
Millie laughs, glancing between them. “You two fight like an old married couple.”
Finn doesn’t miss a beat.
“She wishes,” he says smugly.
(Y/N)’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
She sticks her tongue out at him without hesitation, cheeks pink from either the carpet lights or embarrassment.
Finn cackles triumphantly and swings the camera away before she can swat it.
The lens pans out over the entire red carpet—cast members posing, photographers shouting names, fans pressed against barricades, the giant backdrop behind them.
“Season one premiere!” he shouts over the noise. “Look at this! We did this!”
The camera lingers on the lights for a moment, the chaos, the excitement—
Then dips slightly, catching (Y/N) in the corner of the frame still mock-glaring at him.
Even in the blur, she’s smiling.
*****************
The next clip starts abruptly, slightly tilted like Finn forgot to fix the angle before pressing record.
They’re in a hallway. Beige walls. Fluorescent lights humming overhead. Somewhere in the distance, crew members are talking and doors are opening and closing.
The camera zooms in slowly on (Y/N), who is very obviously standing just outside a partially open door.
She’s pretending not to look inside.
She is absolutely looking inside.
Behind the camera, fourteen-year-old Finn lowers his voice into a dramatic whisper.
“What are you doing?”
She jumps slightly, then immediately crosses her arms like she’s been caught doing something criminal.
“Nothing.”
Finn zooms in on her face.
“Uh-huh.”
She shifts her weight, peeking through the crack in the door again. Inside, a few people are talking—laughter floats out into the hallway.
“Oh yeah,” Finn continues, voice dripping with mock seriousness. “She’s totally not staking out the room to see who the person playing Max is.”
(Y/N) whips around, eyes wide. “Shush!”
She glances around like someone important might hear him.
“I’m not staking out,” she insists, lowering her voice. “I just— I just wanted to see her before everyone else meets her.”
Finn slowly pans the camera from her face to the door and back again.
“So. Staking out.”
She glares at him, but it’s weak. Nerves are clearly winning.
“She looks nice,” she mutters, almost to herself.
Finn snorts. “You look like a creep.”
“I do not!”
“You’re lurking outside a door,” he says. “That’s textbook creep behavior.”
She huffs and adjusts her jacket. “I just don’t want to walk in and make it awkward.”
Finn lowers the camera slightly so he’s partially in frame now, leaning against the wall with exaggerated patience.
“You could just go in.”
She chews on her lip. “What if she doesn’t like me?”
The question comes out smaller than she probably intended.
Finn pauses.
Then, softer, “It’s very hard to not like you.”
She blinks at him, clearly not expecting that answer.
Before she can respond, he grins mischievously again.
“Also, you’re not that important.”
Her jaw drops. “Finn!”
He laughs, dodging her attempt to grab the camera.
“What’s her name again?” he asks, aiming the lens back at her.
She looks toward the door once more, almost reverent.
“Sadie.”
There’s a split second of silence.
Then Finn suddenly pushes the door open all the way.
“FINN—!” she yelps, but he’s already grabbed her wrist and is dragging her inside.
“Hey, Sadie!” Finn announces brightly as he pulls (Y/N) fully into the room.
The camera catches a quick flash of a red-haired girl turning around—
Sadie Sink mid-surprise—
And then the footage cuts abruptly to black.
*****************
The next clip fades into soft afternoon light spilling through set windows.
A couch tucked into the corner of a soundstage. Blankets half-thrown over the back. Between takes kind of quiet.
(Y/N) and Sadie are tangled together on the couch, legs draped over each other, completely comfortable. Sadie’s chin is resting on (Y/N)’s shoulder while they scroll through something on a phone.
From behind the camera, fourteen-year-old Finn gasps dramatically.
“Wow. I can’t believe I wasn’t invited to the cuddle sesh.”
(Y/N) doesn’t even look up. “You don’t deserve to be.”
Sadie snickers quietly.
Finn zooms in. “Excuse me? How was I mean?”
Now (Y/N) looks at the camera, affronted. “You said I wouldn’t survive in Vancouver because it’s cold.”
Finn scoffs. “It is cold.”
“You implied I would perish.”
“I did not imply perish.”
Sadie is fully laughing now, shoulders shaking.
Finn continues, “You can barely handle when it goes below thirty-five in Georgia.”
(Y/N) immediately huffs. “That is different.”
“How?”
“It’s a wet cold.”
Finn bursts out laughing. “Georgia is not colder than Vancouver.”
“It feels colder to me!”
Sadie hides her face in (Y/N)’s shoulder, giggling.
“You’re just dramatic,” Finn teases.
(Y/N) lunges toward the camera with one hand. “Stop recording!”
The footage jolts wildly as she tries to swat the lens away, Finn yelping as he stumbles back.
“Assault! This is documented!” he shouts through laughter.
The last thing visible before the clip cuts is Sadie still smiling, and (Y/N) trying very hard not to.
*****************
The next clip opens quieter.
Fourteen-year-old Finn is sitting on the tiny couch in his trailer, knees bouncing in a way that gives away everything.
He angles the camera down dramatically.
“Okay,” he whispers. “This is either going to be historic… or deeply humiliating.”
He lifts up a folded piece of paper and holds it close to the lens.
“Restaurant reservation,” he narrates.
Next: a slightly crumpled bouquet of flowers in a plastic wrap.
“Flowers.”
And finally—
A small shark plushie.
He squeezes it. It squeaks faintly.
“Because she said once that sharks are misunderstood and that they’re actually just big fish with anxiety.”
He nods, very serious.
“So. The plan is: when filming finishes for the day, I’m going to ask her out.”
His voice drops just a little softer.
“And I really hope she says yes.”
He exhales.
“If she doesn’t,” he adds quickly, “I blame Sadie and Gaten. This was their idea. Legally.”
The screen cuts sharply—
Now the camera is clearly in someone else’s hands.
Gaten is filming his own face way too close to the lens.
“This is a live update,” he whispers dramatically.
He flips the camera around.
Finn is standing outside a trailer door, flowers in one hand, shark plushie tucked under his arm, staring at the door like it might bite him.
From behind the camera, Gaten stage-whispers, “You got this!”
Finn turns and glares so intensely it would be intimidating if he didn’t look like he might pass out.
“Stop filming,” Finn mouths.
The trailer door suddenly opens.
The camera doesn’t catch what’s said—just muffled voices and Finn stepping slightly inside the doorway.
There’s a pause.
A beat that stretches just long enough to feel monumental.
Then Finn turns slightly toward the camera—
And gives a thumbs up.
Gaten lets out a silent, frantic cheer behind the lens.
(Y/N) appears in the doorway a second later, eyes immediately landing on the camera.
She bursts out laughing.
“Gaten,” she calls, “put the goddamn camera away!”
The footage jerks wildly as Gaten cackles—
And cuts to black.
*****************
The next clip opens with loud airport noise—rolling suitcases clacking over tile, distant announcements echoing overhead, the low constant hum of hundreds of conversations overlapping at once.
The footage is shaky and slightly crooked, like whoever’s filming is standing on their toes, weaving between people, trying to see over a sea of winter coats and backpacks.
“Okay, okay—” sixteen-year-old Finn whispers behind the camera, breath a little too fast. “Gate C24. She said C24.”
The lens zooms in too far on a random businessman. Zooms back out. Pans wildly across the terminal.
Then—
There she is.
(Y/N), fifteen now, stepping through the gate doors with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a duffel in her hand. Her hair’s a little messy from the flight, headphones hanging around her neck, eyes scanning the terminal like she’s looking for something specific.
The camera jolts forward so suddenly it almost smacks into someone’s suitcase.
“Move—sorry—sorry—” Finn mutters as he pushes through the crowd.
She spots him at the exact same time.
Her face changes instantly.
That travel-tired look disappears, replaced with something bright and unmistakable.
“Hi!” she calls.
Finn doesn’t even answer.
He just barrels into her.
The screen swings sideways as he wraps her in a hug so tight it nearly knocks the camera from his hand. The footage becomes a blur of jackets and hair and ceiling lights as he squeezes her off-balance.
Her laugh is muffled against his shoulder. “Oh my God—Finn!”
“You’re here,” he says into her hair, voice half relieved, half disbelieving.
“Obviously,” she laughs. “You’re crushing my ribs.”
He loosens his grip slightly but doesn’t let go.
The camera angle is terrible—mostly their shoulders—but you can hear it. The way they both exhale at the same time.
He pulls back just enough to turn the camera toward both of them while they start walking through the terminal, still half-attached at the hip like neither one wants to create actual space.
“Baby’s first Vancouver trip,” he announces proudly into the lens, grin wide and uncontained.
She rolls her eyes immediately but smiles directly at the camera anyway. “I’ve been to Vancouver before.”
“Not with me,” he counters without missing a beat.
She opens her mouth to argue—
Then closes it.
“…Fine.”
He adjusts the angle so they’re both fully in frame now—cheeks flushed from travel and excitement. She looks tired but happy, eyes a little glossy in that way that means she didn’t sleep much on the plane.
“You look gross,” she tells him fondly.
“You look jet-lagged.”
“I am jet-lagged.”
“Good,” he says. “You’ll sleep on the bus.”
She narrows her eyes. “I am not sleeping on a bus.”
“Documented,” he says to the camera. “She will be asleep within twelve minutes.”
They weave through the terminal, bumping shoulders, laughing quietly to themselves like the rest of the airport doesn’t exist.
Without thinking—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—Finn leans down and presses a quick kiss to her temple.
It’s soft. Absentminded.
She doesn’t even flinch. Just smiles wider.
And then—
He kisses her.
Not dramatic.
Not staged.
Not even fully aimed at the camera.
Just a small shift of his head, a brief pause in their steps, and his lips brushing hers like it’s something he’s done a hundred times before.
She makes a tiny surprised sound against his mouth—more startled than anything—like she forgot he was holding a camera.
The kiss lingers for half a second longer than it probably should in a crowded airport.
The camera dips abruptly, like he suddenly remembers it’s still in his hand.
“Okay,” he mutters, slightly breathless.
The footage tilts toward the polished airport floor as he lowers it, catching a blurry shot of their shoes walking in sync.
You can still hear her laughing softly.
“Finn,” she says under her breath, half warning, half smiling.
“What?” he replies, completely unrepentant.
“You’re ridiculous.”
There’s a beat.
“Yeah,” he says easily.
The screen cuts to black mid-laugh.
*****************
The video starts shaky and loud.
Backstage noise — amps humming, muffled crowd cheering from beyond the curtain, someone calling out about a set list. The lighting is dim and yellow, all scuffed floors and tangled cables.
Finn flips the camera toward himself, flushed and buzzing with post-show adrenaline, hair damp and sticking to his forehead.
“We did it,” he says breathlessly. “That was insane.”
From somewhere down the hall, someone shouts his name.
He spins the camera around—
And there she is.
Standing just inside the backstage entrance, hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie, smiling at him like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just runs.
The camera jerks violently as he barrels down the hallway and wraps his arms around her.
She lets out a startled “Oomph!” as he nearly lifts her off her feet.
“Oh my God—Finn!”
“You came,” he says into her shoulder.
“Of course I came.”
She pulls back slightly, scrunching her nose. “You’re sweaty.”
“Rude.”
“You’re gross.”
He grins — and before she can say anything else, he leans down and kisses her.
It’s quick at first.
Then not.
She melts into it almost immediately, hands sliding up to the back of his neck despite the sweat complaint. The hallway noise fades into background blur as they lean into each other like the rest of the world doesn’t matter.
Someone wolf-whistles in the distance.
They break apart just enough for her to breathe.
Then she notices.
The camera.
She blinks at it. “Why are you filming?”
He pulls it back slightly so they’re both in frame, still wrapped around each other.
“To commemorate,” he says, grinning, slightly out of breath. “Again.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “I know what that is now.”
He laughs at that — the same laugh from the airport video.
“Good,” he says.
Then he kisses her again.
Harder this time.
She laughs against his mouth but kisses him back, fingers tangling in his still-damp hair. He stumbles backward without looking, and she goes with him.
They fall onto the old backstage couch in a heap.
The camera tilts wildly as his grip loosens.
For a second, the shot is just ceiling lights and the edge of a tour poster.
Then the camera slips from his hand entirely and lands sideways on the cushions, still recording.
The frame now catches them half on the couch, half tangled together, laughing breathlessly.
Her hair’s a mess. His shirt is definitely still sweaty.
She pulls back just enough to glance toward where the camera fell.
“The camera,” she says through a laugh.
He doesn’t even look.
“Still commemorating,” he mumbles before leaning in again.
The last thing the video captures is the blurry edge of the couch and the sound of her laughing softly into another kiss before the clip cuts out.
*****************
The next clip cuts in mid-chaos.
The lighting is harsh and artificial—bright set lights bouncing off fake walls and equipment. Somewhere off camera someone yells about resetting props. There’s distant laughter. The kind of background noise that only exists on a film set.
The camera is way too close to her face.
Like—obnoxiously close.
She’s covered in fake blood. It streaks across her cheek, down her neck, soaking into the collar of her costume. There’s a smudge near her eyebrow that makes her look unintentionally feral.
She doesn’t notice the camera.
She’s mid-rant.
“—because you can’t cheat at fingers, Caleb!” she insists, gesturing wildly with blood-stained hands. “It’s literally impossible to win unless you’re cheating!”
Across from her, Caleb is trying not to laugh.
“I’m not cheating,” he says, clearly lying.
“You hesitated!” she accuses. “You hesitated and then you switched at the last second.”
“That’s strategy.”
“That’s criminal.”
Finn’s laugh shakes the frame slightly.
The camera pulls back just enough to show that it’s him holding it—grinning like this is the best thing he’s seen all day.
She keeps going, completely unaware she’s being documented.
“And don’t even start with me about ‘strategy,’ because every time we play you suddenly become a mathematician—”
She turns slightly as she talks, absentmindedly leaning her shoulder into Finn’s chest like she’s done it a thousand times before. It’s casual. Automatic. Comfortable.
He steadies the camera with one hand and lets her lean.
“Tell the truth,” Finn says lightly, voice teasing. “Are you just mad because you lost?”
She freezes mid-gesture.
Slowly.
Painfully slowly.
She turns her head.
Her eyes lock directly into the lens.
There’s fake blood under one eye. Her expression is pure offense.
“You’re filming?” she demands.
Finn zooms in slightly instead of answering.
Her glare intensifies.
“You are so annoying.”
He hums innocently. “I asked a simple question.”
She steps closer.
Too close.
Her face fills the entire frame now—mock fury, glossy lips, a streak of red across her jaw.
“You,” she says, pointing at the lens, “are an instigator.”
“Answer the question.”
Her eyes narrow.
There’s a split second where it looks like she might actually smack the camera.
Instead—
She leans forward and kisses the lens.
It’s quick but deliberate.
The screen goes momentarily dark from the impact.
When she pulls back, there’s a visible smear of lip gloss right across the glass—pink and shiny, slightly crooked.
Finn makes the most dramatic, wounded sound imaginable.
“Are you kidding me?” he groans.
Behind them, Caleb bursts out laughing.
“She marked her territory,” Caleb says helpfully.
“You’re unbelievable,” Finn mutters, trying to angle the camera to see the damage. “This is not cheap.”
She’s already backing away, smug.
“Consider it a signature,” she calls over her shoulder.
Finn uses the edge of his hoodie sleeve to wipe at the lens. It smears worse.
“Oh my God,” he sighs.
She laughs—bright, victorious—and turns to leave.
As she passes him, he lightly shoves her shoulder.
“Hey!”
“You deserved it!” she shoots back.
He bumps her again, gentler this time, still half laughing.
“You’re buying me lens cleaner.”
“You’re buying me a rematch,” she counters without missing a beat.
Caleb’s voice floats in from offscreen: “I’m still not cheating!”
They both yell back in unison—
“LIAR!”
The camera shakes as Finn laughs again.
The clip ends with him finally managing to wipe the lens clear… only for a faint glossy fingerprint to still catch the light.
He sighs dramatically one last time before the screen cuts.
*****************
The next clip opens with the soft echo of barking.
It’s brighter here—sunlight pouring through wide windows, rows of kennels lining the walls. There’s a laminated sign near the entrance that reads: Adopt, Don’t Shop. The air smells faintly like disinfectant and puppy breath.
Finn flips the camera around to show himself first.
“We are in Atlanta,” he whispers dramatically, as if he’s narrating a nature documentary. “And she said we were just ‘stopping by.’”
He turns the camera toward a row of dogs.
A beagle presses its nose through the bars. A sleepy pit mix thumps its tail lazily. Somewhere in the background, a volunteer laughs.
He walks slowly down the aisle, filming each dog like they’re contestants in a pageant.
“This one looks like it pays taxes,” he says quietly, zooming in on a very serious-looking shepherd mix.
A bark echoes from around the corner.
He rounds it—
And stops.
The camera dips slightly in surprise.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the aisle, completely ignoring the world around her. Her hair’s fallen forward over her shoulder, and she’s laughing—full, unfiltered—while a tiny duck tolling retriever puppy climbs clumsily into her lap.
The puppy is all fluff and oversized paws and unearned confidence.
It’s chaos.
The puppy nips playfully at her sleeve. She gasps dramatically. “You’re feral! Oh my God, you’re actually feral.”
Finn zooms in.
“You’ve been gone for four minutes,” he says.
She doesn’t look up. “I live here now.”
The puppy attempts to scale her shoulder like a mountain.
Finn walks closer, crouching down behind her. The camera captures her profile—soft, bright, completely gone over the dog.
He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her temple.
She hums distractedly but doesn’t break eye contact with the puppy.
“I’m getting him,” she says with absolute certainty.
Finn snorts.
“There is no universe where your mom says yes.”
She finally looks up at him, offended. “I don’t care.”
“You don’t care?”
“Nope.”
The puppy licks her chin mid-sentence. She laughs again, squishing its face gently.
Finn shifts slightly to get a better angle. “What’s his name?”
She answers immediately.
“Pickles.”
There’s half a second of silence.
Then Finn absolutely loses it.
“Pickles?” he repeats, laughter spilling out of him. “You met him thirty seconds ago!”
“He told me,” she insists.
“He told you.”
“Yes.”
The puppy barks once, like it’s backing her up.
“That’s insane,” Finn says between laughs.
She scoops the puppy up suddenly and, without warning, plops him directly into Finn’s arms.
The camera wobbles as he instinctively adjusts his grip.
“Whoa—hey—okay—”
Pickles settles immediately against his chest, tail wagging at full speed.
Finn looks down at him.
The puppy looks up at Finn.
It’s suspiciously perfect.
She reaches up and takes the camera from his hand.
“Oh this is—this is gold,” she murmurs, flipping it so now she’s filming them.
Finn blinks at her. “Don’t.”
Pickles stretches up and licks Finn’s chin.
She gasps dramatically behind the camera. “He loves you.”
“He does not.”
Pickles licks him again.
She zooms in aggressively on Finn’s expression as he tries—and fails—to remain unimpressed.
“You’re holding him wrong,” she critiques.
“I’ve had him for three seconds.”
“You have to support his little body.”
“I am supporting his little body!”
Pickles yawns.
Finn melts. Just slightly.
She catches it.
“I saw that,” she sings.
“You saw nothing.”
“You love him.”
Finn looks down at the puppy again. Pickles is now chewing gently on the string of his hoodie.
He sighs.
“…He’s fine.”
She flips the camera back to herself, grinning like she just won something monumental.
“Pickles Harrington,” she says proudly.
Finn’s head snaps up. “Absolutely not.”
The clip ends with her laughter echoing through the shelter and Finn still holding the puppy like he doesn’t know how it happened—but also not making any move to give him back.
*****************
The next clip feels different immediately.
There’s no music. No chaos. No dramatic singing.
Just the low hum of set equipment and the muted buzz of crew members moving in the background.
The camera flips on to a close-up of Gaten’s face.
Too close.
“Okay,” Gaten says, adjusting the framing like he’s intentionally centering himself. “We’re back.”
He gives the camera a pointed look.
Behind him, slightly out of focus, you can see her.
She’s standing a few yards away, talking with Matt and Ross. Script in hand. Listening intently. Nodding at something Matt says.
She looks serious. Professional.
There’s distance in the shot.
And then—
The camera drifts.
Slowly.
Subtly.
Tilting off Gaten’s face.
Gaten notices instantly.
He reaches up and physically nudges the lens back toward himself.
“Nope,” he says casually. “We’re not doing that.”
The camera lingers on him for half a second.
Then drifts again.
This time it zooms slightly.
She laughs softly at something Ross says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
The moment isn’t dramatic. It’s small.
But the camera stays.
Gaten leans into frame again, forcing himself between the lens and the background.
“Hi,” he says flatly. “I’m the star of this video.”
The camera tilts around him.
Gaten sighs loudly.
“Dude,” he mutters.
He grabs the edge of the camera again and redirects it firmly back to his own face.
“You’re being weird,” he adds under his breath.
In the background, she shifts positions, still mid-conversation. Focused. Completely unaware.
The lens drifts again.
Slower this time.
Almost hesitant.
It doesn’t zoom as much—just enough to keep her centered in the background.
Gaten steps sideways, blocking the shot entirely now.
“Absolutely not,” he says, more gently this time. “We talked about this.”
There’s a pause.
The camera stills for a second.
Then—like muscle memory—it tries again.
Just a fraction of a movement.
Gaten reaches out and physically lowers it a few inches so it points at the ground.
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he murmurs, not unkindly.
In the background, she finishes her conversation with the Duffers. She nods once more, gives them a small smile, and walks off in the opposite direction.
The camera lifts slightly—too late.
She’s already out of frame.
There’s a quiet beat.
Gaten looks directly into the lens now.
His expression isn’t teasing anymore.
“Cut it out,” he says softly.
The camera doesn’t move this time.
The clip ends there—no music, no laughter, just the low background noise of set life continuing like nothing shifted at all.
*****************
The next clip opens in a bright hotel hallway — beige carpet, too-white walls, the faint echo of doors shutting somewhere down the corridor.
It’s clearly pre-press chaos. You can hear stylists talking in another room, someone laughing, the distant hum of a blow dryer.
Finn flips the camera around to himself first.
“Season four press,” he says, half-grinning, half-nervous energy. “California edition.”
He turns the camera toward the group gathered near the elevator.
They’re lined up loosely, leaning against the wall, waiting to head downstairs. Sadie is scrolling through her phone. Millie is adjusting her jacket in the reflection of a framed painting.
(Y/N) is standing between them.
Hands clasped in front of her. Calm. Composed.
Finn walks closer, camera slightly bouncing with each step.
“Are we ready?” he asks, panning across all of them.
Millie nods confidently. “Born ready.”
Sadie gives a small thumbs up without looking up from her phone.
When the camera reaches (Y/N), she looks directly into the lens and gives a soft nod.
Simple.
Finn lingers a second longer than necessary.
Then he clears his throat and keeps moving down the line.
“Okay,” he says. “Important question.”
Everyone groans lightly.
He ignores it.
“We’re in California for, like, a week. What’s one thing you want to do while we’re here?”
He points the camera at Millie first.
“Beach,” she answers immediately. “Obviously.”
He swings to Sadie.
She looks up now, squinting slightly at the lens. “Sleep.”
“That’s depressing.”
“It’s realistic.”
He moves the camera.
(Y/N)’s turn.
She brightens just a little. “Disney.”
There’s no hesitation.
No irony.
Just genuine excitement.
Finn reacts immediately, stepping slightly closer. “Wait—yeah. Me too.”
She looks at him.
“Really?”
“Obviously.”
There’s a tiny shared grin there. Quick. Familiar.
In the corner of the frame, Sadie glances between them.
Her expression shifts—subtle but unmistakable.
A narrow-eyed glare.
She doesn’t say anything.
Just goes back to her phone with exaggerated focus.
Finn keeps filming, oblivious or pretending to be.
“Okay, so that’s two votes for Disney,” he says. “We’re going.”
“We’re not,” Sadie mutters flatly.
(Y/N) laughs under her breath.
The elevator dings behind them.
Millie steps forward first. “If we go to Disney, I’m not waiting in line for four hours.”
“You will,” Finn says confidently.
(Y/N) bumps her shoulder lightly against Sadie’s as they step toward the elevator.
“Come on,” she teases gently. “You’ll have fun.”
Sadie just gives her a look.
Not mean.
Just loaded.
Finn catches it for half a second in the frame before the doors slide open and everyone files inside.
The camera shakes as they squeeze in.
Finn flips it back toward himself.
“Disney vlog coming soon,” he says.
From somewhere behind him, Sadie’s voice cuts in dryly—
“Over my dead body.”
The clip ends with (Y/N) laughing softly in the background and the elevator doors sliding shut.
*****************
The video opens to bright California sun and the unmistakable music drifting through the entrance gates of Disneyland Park.
Finn is holding the camera selfie-style, squinting slightly.
“Okay,” he says, overly formal for no reason. “We have officially made it.”
He steps aside dramatically.
Behind him, (Y/N) is already ten feet ahead, wearing oversized Mickey ears and holding a churro like it’s a trophy. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, turning in slow circles to take everything in.
“It smells like childhood!” she yells back toward them.
Sadie walks beside Finn, sunglasses on, unimpressed but amused. Caleb trails just behind, scanning the map like he’s trying to optimize their route.
Finn lowers his voice slightly. “She’s been like this since the parking lot.”
Cut to a quick shot of (Y/N) dragging Sadie toward the castle, ears wobbling with every step.
Cut to her insisting on taking a group selfie in front of Mickey Mouse, who patiently poses while Caleb pretends to cry from embarrassment.
Cut to (Y/N) mid-scream on a roller coaster, hands straight in the air, hair flying everywhere, Finn’s laughter audible but off-screen.
Cut to her dramatically gasping over cotton candy.
Cut to her forcing Finn to try a giant turkey leg while she films him and narrates like a food critic.
“Describe the texture.”
“It’s just meat.”
“Be poetic.”
“It’s… aggressive.”
She laughs so hard the camera shakes.
There’s a softer moment too—(Y/N) sitting cross-legged on the curb during the afternoon parade, head tilted back, smiling at the performers like she’s five years old again. Finn zooms in quietly from a distance. She doesn’t notice this time.
Montage shifts to evening.
The park glows gold and pink as the sun sets. Fairy lights blink on overhead. Music swells.
(Y/N) stands under the castle lights, ears slightly crooked now, holding a souvenir bag in one hand and Finn’s sleeve in the other.
She’s tired in the happiest way.
Finn steps into frame beside her.
“Was it worth it?” he asks.
She nods immediately. “Best day ever.”
Sadie walks past them, deadpan. “You said that at lunch.”
“It got better.”
Fireworks explode overhead.
There’s a quick clip of all four of them looking up, colors flashing across their faces.
Then the vlog shifts into stills.
Photos from throughout the day flash across the screen—(Y/N) mid-laugh, Caleb pretending to duel someone with a lightsaber, Sadie holding a Dole Whip, Finn wearing Mickey ears against his will.
And finally—
A photo strip.
Four small frames stacked vertically.
Frame one: (Y/N) and Finn sitting close together in a photo booth, both smiling too wide.
Frame two: She’s laughing at something he said, eyes crinkled.
Frame three: He’s looking at her instead of the camera.
Frame four—
They’re kissing.
Soft. Unposed. The booth light washing everything slightly pink.
The vlog lingers on that last frame for just a second longer than the others.
Text fades in underneath it.
thank god for disney magic.
The screen cuts to black.
*****************
The next clip opens mid-laugh, the camera already rolling.
Finn is half-reclined on the couch, legs stretched out.
(Y/N) is fully draped over him like she belongs there — head tucked against his chest, one leg thrown over his, scrolling through a streaming menu on a tablet balanced against his hoodie.
The camera is propped somewhere nearby, angled just enough to catch all three of them.
In the doorway stands Gaten, staring at the scene like he’s walked into something deeply offensive.
“It is not normal,”(Y/N) says firmly, not even looking up, “to have a room with that much mess.”
Gaten throws his hands up. “It’s organized chaos!”
“It’s biohazard.”
Finn laughs under his breath, the sound vibrating under her cheek.
Gaten points at her. “If you hate it so much, go back to your apartment.”
She finally glances up, unimpressed. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Sadie misses you,” he tries.
She snorts. “No she does not. She’s on set.”
Gaten groans dramatically. “Unbelievable.”
(Y/N) settles further into Finn like she’s proving a point, adjusting until she’s more comfortable.
Finn wraps his arm tighter around her automatically.
Gaten shakes his head. “You two are insufferable.”
“We know,” Finn replies easily.
Gaten backs toward the doorway. “I’m going back to my room. At least my mess doesn’t judge me.”
“You should still clean it!” (Y/N) calls after him.
“Traitor!” he shoots back before disappearing down the hall.
There’s a brief quiet once he’s gone.
Finn laughs softly, looking down at her. “You’re starting fights again.”
“I’m correct,” she mutters, fully focused on the tablet. “Do we want a thriller or something stupid?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he leans down and presses a kiss to her temple.
Then another to her cheek.
She swats at him lightly without looking up. “Stop.”
He doesn’t.
A kiss to her jaw.
Another to the side of her nose.
She huffs but can’t stop smiling. “I’m trying to pick a movie.”
“You’re taking too long.”
“Because you’re distracting me.”
He hums, unbothered, and presses one more exaggerated kiss to her forehead.
She finally looks up at him.
He’s grinning.
“You’re annoying,” she says softly.
“Yeah.”
She goes back to scrolling.
“Okay,” she decides. “This one.”
“What is it?”
“No idea.”
“Great choice.”
She settles back into him fully, tablet resting against both of them now.
The camera captures the quiet moment — her hair falling over his shoulder, his hand tracing lazy circles against her arm, set noise humming faintly around them like background static.
Comfortable.
Uncomplicated.
The clip ends with Finn kissing her hair one more time while she shushes him absentmindedly, completely absorbed in the movie preview playing on the screen.
*****************
The next clip opens with the soft gray light of a Vancouver afternoon spilling through tall townhouse windows.
You can hear the faint sound of traffic outside. A kettle clicks off somewhere in the background. It’s quiet in that domestic, lived-in way.
Finn is holding the camera low, leaning against a doorway.
(Y/N) is in the middle of the living room, completely focused, moving a side table three inches to the left.
Then two inches back.
Then tilting a lamp slightly.
He zooms in.
“What,” he asks slowly, “are you doing?”
She doesn’t even turn around. “I’m fixing it.”
“Fixing what?”
“The vibe.”
He snorts.
She steps back, hands on hips, evaluating the couch like it personally offended her.
“I’m making this house a home,” she says decisively.
Finn laughs immediately. “That is the most dramatic thing you’ve ever said.”
She spins to face him. “You want to live in a bachelor cave forever?”
“It was not a cave.”
“There were zero throw pillows.”
“I don’t need throw pillows.”
“You absolutely do.”
She walks past him to adjust a framed photo on the wall. The camera follows her lazily as she straightens it with precise care.
From somewhere down the hall—
Paws.
Fast ones.
Finn barely has time to lower the camera before Pickles bursts into frame like a missile.
The now significantly less tiny duck tolling retriever launches himself at her knees.
She yelps as she stumbles backward onto the couch, laughing.
“Pickles! Betrayal!”
The dog climbs on top of her triumphantly, licking her face at full speed.
Finn is laughing too hard to keep the frame steady.
“Attack mode activated,” he narrates.
“I need assistance!” she wheezes between giggles.
Finn finally steps in, grabbing Pickles gently by the harness and lifting him off her.
“Sir,” he tells the dog seriously. “Calm down.”
Pickles wiggles happily in his arms.
She sits up, breathless, hair completely messed up now, smiling so wide it’s unfair.
“You saved me,” she says dramatically.
“I did.”
He sets Pickles down and puts the camera on the console table, angling it so it still catches them both.
Without really announcing it, he steps back toward her.
“Since you’re making this a home,” he says, reaching for her hands, “we should christen it properly.”
She narrows her eyes. “That sounds suspicious.”
He ignores that and pulls her gently to her feet.
Then he starts swaying.
There’s no music.
Just the faint hum of the city outside and Pickles’ nails clicking across the hardwood as he circles them.
She laughs immediately. “There’s no song.”
“There is in my head.”
“That’s worse.”
But she goes with it.
Hands resting on his shoulders now, his hands at her waist, they sway slowly in the middle of their half-rearranged living room.
She’s still smiling when he tilts his head slightly.
“Are you wearing a Calpurnia shirt?”
She glances down at herself like she forgot. “Yes.”
He laughs softly, almost shyly. “That’s so weird.”
“You’re weird.”
“You’re wearing my old band shirt.”
“It’s comfortable.”
He shakes his head, amused, pulling her a little closer.
Pickles barks once like he’s offended he’s not included.
She laughs again, resting her forehead briefly against Finn’s collarbone.
The moment feels easy. Quiet. Real.
Finn looks toward the camera for a second, like he remembers it’s there.
Then he reaches out, still swaying slightly with her, and moves to shut it off.
The last frame catches them mid-step in their silent slow dance, sunlight warming the room around them before the screen goes dark.
12,569 Comments
camera_gloss_queen The lip gloss kiss on the camera was iconic main character behavior
cryinginthesuburbs THIS IS WHAT HARD LAUNCHES WERE MADE FOR 😭😭 I feel like I just watched their entire life story in 4K
MikeWheelerlvr The way they just exist around each other is actually unfair
parasocial_but_respectful Genuinely feels like I watched someone’s private home video and now I’m emotionally attached
pickles..fan I am now invested in Pickles’ entire career
Strangerthingsfan This is literally better than any romance movie I’ve ever watched
(Y/N)'sWife I need a 3 hour extended cut immediately
olivia rodrigo just had her birthday and Idk why, but it made me think of this request soooooo anyways could you maybe write about the reader’s birthday? feel free to write whatever you want; I just think it’d be cute if Finn threw her a birthday party or something
k bye thank youuuuuu 💓💓 :D
Hi yes ofc!!! I loved this request!!! You can find the fic here!
Summary: When it seems like no one is able to come celebrate your birthday with you after the wrap of Stranger Things 5 you spend most of your time moping around the house. Little do you know a certain Canadian has a plan to make this birthday the best.
Based on this request!
You can find a fic that depicts the video here!
Warnings/Tags: Reader feeling abandoned, everyone lies to her but for a good reason, fluff, finn is a simp, hoes before bros, that one James cordon interview, chaos incarnate, drinking, tiny bit of angst if you squint.
*****************
The apartment is too quiet.
Not empty—never empty—but quiet in that way that makes everything feel bigger than it is.
You’re curled up on the corner of the couch in the Vancouver townhouse you and Finn share, your socked feet tucked beneath you, phone pressed to your ear. The rain outside taps softly against the windows, a steady, grey Vancouver drizzle that makes the whole place feel sleepier than usual.
Pickles is sprawled dramatically across your lap, snoring like he pays rent.
On the other end of the line, Sadie sighs.
“I hate this,” she says, and you can practically see her pacing her New York apartment. “I really do. But this meeting—it's huge. It’s for that new project I told you about. They won’t move it.”
You try to keep your voice light. “No, I know. I know. That’s amazing, Sades. I’m proud of you.”
There’s a pause. “You’re not mad?”
You stare at the blank TV screen across from you, at the faint reflection of yourself in it. “No. I just… I miss you.”
Her voice softens immediately. “We’ll celebrate properly. I promise. I’ll fly out as soon as I’m free, or you can come here. We’ll make it a whole thing. Twenty-one deserves chaos.”
You huff out a small laugh. “Yeah. Chaos.”
Another beat of silence.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you too.”
When you hang up, the apartment feels even quieter than before.
Pickles lifts his head and gives a small, questioning whine, as if he knows something’s off.
“Yeah,” you murmur, scratching behind her ears. “I know.”
You glance at the clock on the wall. Your birthday is in four days.
Stranger Things wrapped months ago, and somehow everyone scattered like confetti in the wind. Meetings. Press. Other films. Different cities. It feels like trying to plan a reunion with international diplomats.
You know it’s silly. You’re all adults. Careers move forward. Lives shift.
But you really wanted this one.
Pickles wriggles out of your lap and trots toward the front door, whining louder.
“Oh, okay. Okay. Drama king.”
You stand, grabbing his little yellow harness from the hook by the door. She spins in circles while you clip it on, nails tapping excitedly against the hardwood.
“Calm down,” you laugh softly. “We’re literally going downstairs.”
You tug your hoodie tighter around yourself before stepping out into the damp stairwell. The air smells like rain and concrete.
You barely make it down the first step.
Your foot slips on the slick surface.
“Shit—”
You slide, catching yourself awkwardly on the railing as Pickles’ leash jerks free from your hand.
“Pickles!”
He bolts.
Your heart drops into your stomach as he bounds down the stairs and out onto the wet pavement, tail wagging like he’s on the adventure of his life.
You scramble up, wincing slightly, and rush down after him.
“Pickles, get back here!”
He doesn’t run far.
Instead, he launches himself at someone just stepping onto the sidewalk.
You freeze for half a second before recognition hits.
Finn.
He’s barely set his bag down before Pickles is jumping up against him, paws muddying his jeans as he laughs in surprise.
“Hey! Whoa, hey, hi, hello—”
Relief floods through you so fast your knees feel weak.
You hurry down the last few steps, and before you can stop yourself, you fall straight into him.
He catches you automatically, arms wrapping around your waist, steady and warm and solid.
“Careful,” he murmurs, grinning down at you.
“I slipped,” you mumble into his chest.
“I noticed.”
He kisses you softly—just once at first—rain dampening his curls, his hands warm against your back.
Then he kisses you again.
And again.
And then he starts peppering kisses all over your face—your cheek, your temple, the tip of your nose.
“Finn!” you protest through a laugh, trying to push him away but not really trying. “We’re outside!”
“Good,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Let the world see.”
Pickles barks in agreement.
You relax against him, letting your head fall to his shoulder. “Sadie can’t come either.”
He goes quiet for a second, but his hand rubs soothing circles into your back.
“Yeah?”
“Meeting in New York. Big project.” You shrug, trying to sound casual. “It’s fine.”
He nods slowly. “Is it?”
You pull back just enough to look at him. “Are you calling me a liar?"
“I’m not.” His expression softens. “It sucks. Of course it sucks. But it’s not forever.”
You look down at your sneakers. “Everyone’s busy. Caleb’s filming. Gaten’s on Broadway again. Noah’s in Paris. Millie’s… Millie.” You exhale. “I love you. I do. I just—I really wanted everyone together.”
Finn reaches up and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear.
“I know,” he says quietly. “You always go all out for everyone else. You deserve the same.”
The rain picks up slightly, dotting his jacket, darkening the fabric.
“We’ll see them,” he continues. “Maybe not on the exact day. But we will. We’ll make it happen. I’ll make it happen.”
You give him a small, skeptical smile. “You control international schedules now?”
He smirks. “Obviously. It’s in my contract.”
You roll your eyes, but your chest feels a little lighter.
He squeezes your waist. “And hey. Even if it’s just us for the actual day? We’ll make it good. Like, stupid good. You won’t even miss them.”
You raise a brow. “That’s a bold promise.”
He leans down, brushing his lips against yours again, slower this time. “I’m a bold guy.”
Pickles tugs at the leash, clearly over the emotional moment.
“Okay, okay,” you sigh, lacing your fingers through Finn’s as you take the leash back. “Let’s walk him before he stages a rebellion.”
He interlocks your hands easily, falling into step beside you as you start down the sidewalk. The rain is soft now, almost comforting.
“You know,” he says after a moment, bumping his shoulder into yours, “twenty-one is just the beginning. We’ve got like… eighty more birthdays to figure out.”
You laugh. “Eighty?”
“At least. I’m planning ahead.”
You glance at him, at the way his curls fall into his eyes, at the way he keeps glancing at you like you’re something fragile and important.
The cast might be scattered across cities and time zones.
But right now, walking through the rain with your hand in his and Pickles trotting proudly ahead of you, you don’t feel quite as alone.
“Okay,” you murmur. “We’ll celebrate again later.”
He squeezes your hand. “All of us. Loud. Messy. Probably illegal somewhere.”
You smile.
For now, this is enough.
*****************
Sunlight spills softly through the curtains, pale and golden and warm against your face.
For a moment, you’re suspended in that half-awake haze where nothing feels real yet. The blankets are heavy, the air smells faintly like coffee, and—
Coffee?
Your eyes blink open.
Finn is standing at the edge of the bed, trying and failing to look casual while holding a breakfast tray that looks far too ambitious for him.
“Good morning,” he says carefully.
You push yourself up on your elbows, hair a mess, eyes still puffy with sleep. “Is that… for me?”
“Well, technically I also live here,” he says. “But yes. It’s for you. Birthday girl.”
Your heart does that soft, traitorous little flip.
On the tray: slightly uneven pancakes, strawberries cut a little too thick, a small bowl of whipped cream, scrambled eggs, and coffee in your favorite mug—the chipped one you refuse to throw out.
“Finn,” you breathe.
He sets the tray gently across your lap. “I burned the first batch. And the second batch. But third time’s the charm.”
You laugh, already tearing up in that embarrassing way you always do when he’s sweet.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I absolutely did,” he says, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “You’re twenty-one. That’s a big deal.”
You take a sip of coffee. It’s perfect.
“Thank you,” you murmur.
He sits on the edge of the bed, watching you take your first bite of pancake like he’s awaiting a Michelin review.
“Well?” he asks.
You chew thoughtfully. “It’s… not bad.”
He gasps. “Not bad?”
“I’m kidding!” You grin. “It’s really good.”
He relaxes instantly, shoulders dropping. “Okay. Good.”
You take another bite, savoring it. The quiet feels different from last week. Less heavy. More intimate.
“So,” he says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have good news and bad news.”
You freeze mid-chew. “Okay. Good news first.”
He nods. “Good news is… they had an opening at that restaurant you love downtown. Tonight. Eight o’clock. I called three times to make sure.”
Your face lights up immediately. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Prime table. Not near the bathroom.”
You grin. “That’s huge.”
“I know. I pulled some strings.”
You narrow your eyes playfully. “You mean you refreshed OpenTable aggressively?”
He points at you. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
You laugh, reaching for his hand. “Okay. So what’s the bad news?”
He hesitates just slightly.
“My manager called this morning,” he says. “There’s this private gig tonight. Last minute. Some tech guy’s party. He’s paying… a lot.”
You stop chewing.
“I can tell him no,” Finn says quickly. “Like, immediately. I haven’t confirmed yet. I was going to talk to you first.”
You study his face. There’s guilt there. Worry. That careful expression he gets when he’s bracing for you to be disappointed.
“What time?” you ask.
“Seven. Downtown. Same general area, actually.” He winces. “It’d overlap.”
You look down at your plate for a moment.
A week ago you were upset because everyone was busy. Because schedules never lined up. Because life kept pulling people in different directions.
And here he is, trying to choose between a big-paying gig and dinner with you.
You set your fork down.
“Don’t cancel it.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Don’t cancel.”
His brows pull together. “It’s your birthday.”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “And I’d honestly rather spend the night watching you perform than sit in a restaurant for two hours making small talk with a waiter.”
He searches your face like he’s trying to see if you’re secretly sacrificing something.
“Are you sure?”
You nod. “Completely. I love watching you play. And it’s not like we can’t go to dinner another night.”
He still looks uncertain. “You don’t feel like I’m ditching you?”
You reach out and grab his hand, squeezing it firmly. “Finn. I get front-row access to my incredibly talented boyfriend doing what he loves. On my birthday. That sounds kind of perfect.”
The tension in his shoulders finally melts.
“You’re serious.”
“Very.”
He leans forward and kisses you slowly, lingering this time. When he pulls back, he’s smiling in that bright, boyish way that always makes your chest ache.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna go confirm it then.”
You pick your fork back up and take another bite of pancake, giving him a dramatic thumbs-up with your free hand.
“Go secure the bag,” you mumble through syrup.
He laughs, standing up. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“It’s my twenty-first birthday,” you say. “I can say whatever I want.”
He shakes his head fondly as he walks toward the door, already pulling out his phone.
You watch him go, warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the coffee.
Maybe not everyone could be here.
Maybe plans kept shifting.
But as you sit in bed, eating slightly lopsided pancakes made by the boy you love, listening to him in the other room confirming a show he’s excited about, you realize something steady and certain:
This birthday already feels like yours.
*****************
Your bedroom is a controlled disaster.
Shoes scattered. Makeup open. Jewelry laid out in careful little rows that no longer look careful at all.
You’re standing in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands down the dress Finn picked out for you earlier in the week—a deep, silky fabric that catches the light every time you move. It’s definitely more “anniversary dinner in Paris” than “private gig in downtown Vancouver,” but you’d seen the way his eyes lit up when he showed it to you.
So you’re wearing it.
From the hallway, you can hear his voice drifting in through the cracked door, low and polite as he talks on the phone. Probably confirming set times. Or logistics. Or whatever mysterious things managers and venues discuss.
You finish blending your highlighter and glance toward the doorway.
“Finn?” you call.
“One sec!”
You step into the hallway just as he ends the call.
And you stop.
He looks… different.
Not wildly different. Still Finn. Still curls falling into his eyes. But his shirt is pressed. His jacket actually fits like it was tailored. His boots are clean. There’s even a hint of something like cologne in the air.
You narrow your eyes playfully. “Why do you look more put together than usual?”
He looks down at himself, feigning innocence. “What? I always look put together.”
“You absolutely do not.”
He grins. “I wanted to look good.”
“You always look good.”
“For your birthday,” he clarifies, stepping closer. “I wanted to look good for you.”
Your expression softens immediately.
“Oh.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s a faint pink creeping up his neck. “It’s a special occasion.”
You glance back toward the bedroom. “Okay, well. Special occasion boy, can you help me?”
“With?”
You turn around, lifting your hair over one shoulder. “Zip.”
He follows you back into the room, hands settling carefully at your waist.
For a second, he just stands there, looking at you in the mirror.
The dress hugs you perfectly. It might be too elegant for the venue, but you don’t care anymore.
“You look…” he starts, then trails off.
“Like I’m overdressed for a concert?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Like I’m the luckiest guy in Vancouver.”
Your heart stutters.
“Zip me before I cry and ruin my mascara,” you mumble.
His fingers catch the zipper, pulling it up slowly. The sound is soft and deliberate.
But when it reaches the top, his hands don’t move away.
Instead, his lips brush lightly against the center of your back.
You inhale sharply.
“Finn…”
He kisses just below your shoulder blade.
“Finn,” you repeat, trying not to smile.
His hands slide gently to your hips as his mouth trails upward, slow and warm, until he reaches the back of your neck.
“You’re very distracting,” he murmurs against your skin.
You turn slightly in his arms, pushing at his chest with mock sternness. “We have a concert to get to.”
He leans in again, completely unfazed. “It can wait.”
You laugh as he captures your lips this time, soft at first, then deeper. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer.
From the living room, Pickles barks sharply.
Once. Twice.
You break the kiss, breathless. “See? Even he thinks you need to behave.”
He groans dramatically. “He’s sabotaging me.”
“Good.”
You slip out of his hold, grabbing your bag from the dresser before he can pull you back in.
A car horn beeps outside.
You pause. “Did you call a car?”
He nods, grabbing his keys. “Yeah.”
You tilt your head. “Why?”
He steps toward you, taking your hand. “Because it’s your birthday. You shouldn’t have to worry about driving or parking or any of that.”
Your chest tightens in the best way.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He squeezes your hand gently. “I wanted to.”
You nod, smiling softly. “Okay.”
Pickles trots over as if to inspect the situation, tail wagging.
“We’ll be back later,” you tell him, crouching briefly to kiss his little head. “Don’t throw a party.”
He barks like he’s offended by the suggestion.
Finn opens the door for you with exaggerated flourish. “After you, birthday girl.”
You roll your eyes but step through, lacing your fingers with his as you head down the stairs together.
The car waits at the curb, headlights glowing against the dimming evening sky.
As he leads you toward it, his thumb brushing back and forth over your knuckles, you realize something again—something steady and warm.
Maybe the day didn’t look exactly how you imagined months ago.
But walking toward a waiting car with the boy you love, dressed up just because he wanted to make you feel special, heading to watch him do what he loves most—
It feels exactly right.
*****************
The car pulls up outside the venue, bass already humming faintly through the walls.
You smile automatically.
This is usually your favorite part—slipping in through the front, hood up, pretending you’re just another random girlfriend in the crowd before someone inevitably recognizes you and you end up laughing about it later.
But instead of heading toward the entrance, Finn gently guides you toward the side of the building.
“Uh,” you say, heels clicking against the pavement as you try to keep up. “Why are we going around back?”
He doesn’t miss a step. “Thought we’d switch it up.”
“You love when I sneak in through the front.”
“I also love when you don’t get trampled,” he counters smoothly.
You narrow your eyes at him, but he just gives your hand a small squeeze and opens the back door for you.
The hallway inside smells like dust and electricity and that faint metallic scent all venues seem to share. It’s familiar. Comfortable.
Still.
“You’re being weird,” you say as he leads you down toward his dressing room.
“I’m always weird.”
“More than usual.”
He stops outside the dressing room door and turns to face you. “Okay. Fine. I was thinking…”
He scratches the back of his neck.
“I want to shout you out tonight. Properly. Like, birthday shout-out. Bring you up for a second.”
Your eyes widen immediately. “Finn. No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I will combust. On stage. In front of people.”
He laughs softly. “You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“I want to,” he says gently. “It’s your twenty-first. That’s kind of iconic.”
You hesitate. The thought of a spotlight makes your stomach flip, but there’s something so earnest in his expression.
“You don’t have to,” you murmur.
“I know.” He smiles. “I want to.”
Before you can fully argue, he opens the dressing room door.
“Wait here for a bit, okay? I just need to check on some stuff.”
You glance around the room—his guitar case open in the corner, water bottles lined up on the table, a setlist taped to the mirror.
“Okay,” you say slowly.
He kisses your cheek. “Fifteen minutes.”
And then he’s gone.
You sit down on the couch, smoothing your dress over your knees.
Your phone buzzes.
And buzzes.
And buzzes again.
You unlock it to a flood of notifications.
Sadie: HAPPY 21 YOU OLD WOMAN I LOVE YOU.
Caleb: Drinks on me next time I see you.
Gaten: a voice memo of him dramatically singing Happy Birthday off-key.
Noah: a blurry selfie with the caption wish I was there idiot.
Millie: a long paragraph about how proud she is of you.
Your mom. Your dad. Your cousins. Old friends.
Your chest feels warm and full and just slightly overwhelmed.
You type back quick thank yous, heart reacting everything, smiling down at your screen.
Fifteen minutes pass quicker than you expect.
The door opens and Finn steps back in, looking a little breathless.
“You ready?” he asks.
You stand. “I think I’m actually content staying backstage.”
His face falls slightly. “Come on.”
“I’ll watch from the side! That’s fun!”
He steps closer, hands sliding to your arms. “Please? Just for a second.”
You look up at him. He’s practically glowing with excitement.
“…Fine,” you sigh. “But if I faint, that’s on you.”
He grins. “Deal.”
He leads you toward the curtain, then pauses.
“Wait here,” he says. “I’ll announce you.”
Your stomach flips again.
You stay just behind the heavy black drape as he steps out onto the stage.
The crowd cheers instantly.
Even from backstage, you can feel the vibration of it in your chest.
You hear him laugh into the mic.
“Hey, guys. Thanks for coming out tonight.”
More cheers.
You clasp your hands together, breathing steadily.
“So before we start,” Finn continues, voice warm and easy, “I need to embarrass someone real quick.”
You close your eyes. Oh no.
“It’s a very important person’s birthday tonight.”
The crowd reacts immediately—oohs and scattered cheers.
“She didn’t want me to do this,” he adds, amusement clear in his tone, “but I don’t care.”
Your heart pounds.
“Can we get a big happy birthday for my favorite person in the world?”
The crowd erupts.
You instinctively take a step back, overwhelmed by the noise.
Then suddenly—
A hand reaches through the curtain.
Before you can process it, Finn grabs your hand and gently tugs you forward.
You stumble through the curtain and straight into blinding white light.
For a split second, you can’t see anything.
The brightness is overwhelming, the sound deafening.
You squint, blinking rapidly.
And then your vision clears.
And you freeze.
The venue doesn’t look like a packed, dark concert crowd.
It looks… lit up.
Decorated.
Balloons.
Streamers.
A giant “21” banner hanging across the back wall.
And instead of strangers, instead of fans—
You see them.
Sadie, front and center, already crying.
Caleb grinning like he pulled this off personally.
Gaten waving both arms dramatically.
Noah holding up his phone, filming.
Millie bouncing on her toes.
Your parents. Your siblings. Friends from home. Friends from set. People from every chapter of your life.
Surrounding the stage.
All yelling—
“Surprise!”
The sound crashes over you in a wave.
You turn slowly to Finn, completely speechless.
He’s already watching you, eyes soft, mic lowered now.
“You really thought I booked a tech guy’s birthday party?” he says quietly.
Your hands fly to your mouth.
“You—” You can’t even form a sentence. “You said—”
“I lied,” he admits. “A little.”
Tears blur your vision instantly.
“You said everyone was busy,” he continues gently. “So I figured… I’d fix that.”
*****************
For a solid thirty seconds, you just stand there.
Blinking.
Turning in slow circles like if you spin enough, the scene will reset back to a normal concert.
It doesn’t.
Sadie is still right in front of you, mascara already smudged. Caleb is still grinning. Gaten is dramatically wiping fake tears from his eyes. Your parents are standing near the edge of the stage, your mom clutching her phone like she’s been recording since 2003.
You let out a disbelieving laugh, hands still half covering your mouth.
“What is happening?” you say, voice cracking.
“You’re happening!” Gaten yells.
The crowd—your crowd—cheers again.
You finally start moving, stepping downstage carefully in your definitely-too-nice dress. People reach for you immediately.
You hug Caleb first because he’s closest. He lifts you slightly off the ground.
“You’re evil,” you tell him.
“Wasn’t my idea,” he laughs. “But I support chaos.”
You turn and practically launch yourself at Sadie next.
She squeezes you so tight you can barely breathe.
“You,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You are such a liar.”
She gasps dramatically. “Excuse me?”
“You said you had a meeting. A huge one.”
“In what world,” she says, hands on her hips, “would I actually be busy on your twenty-first birthday?”
You stare at her.
“In no world,” she answers herself. “I’ve had this day blocked off for months.”
“Months?” you repeat weakly.
She nods. “Calendar invite. Color-coded. Non-negotiable.”
You start laughing again, the shock still buzzing through you. “I hate all of you.”
“No you don’t,” she says, hugging you again. “You love us.”
You move from person to person after that, still slightly dazed.
Millie squeals and spins you in a circle.
Noah won’t stop filming.
Gaten insists on singing Happy Birthday again, louder this time.
You hug your parents for what feels like forever. Your mom whispers, “He called us weeks ago,” and that’s when your brain really short-circuits.
Weeks.
When you finally turn back toward center stage, Finn is standing there watching you, hands in his pockets like he didn’t just orchestrate emotional warfare.
You walk toward him slowly.
He braces.
You lightly smack his arm.
“You let me mope,” you accuse.
He winces dramatically. “Ow.”
“For a week.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “In my defense—”
“A week, Finn.”
He tries not to smile. Fails.
“I had to sell it.”
“You were comforting me!”
“I was multitasking.”
You hit his chest again, softer this time. “You’re terrible.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “You were very convincing, by the way. The whole ‘everyone’s busy’ thing? Oscar-worthy.”
You narrow your eyes, but you’re smiling too hard to maintain the glare.
“How long?” you ask.
He tilts his head. “Planning?”
“Yes.”
He shrugs casually. “Much longer than a week.”
Your jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I started calling people the day after the wrap party.”
You look over at her. She blows you a kiss.
“You’re all actually insane.”
“Correct,” he says easily.
Then he reaches behind him to a small table you hadn’t noticed before and hands you a drink—something sparkling and pink in a glass with a little lime wedge.
“For the birthday girl.”
You take it slowly. “Is this—?”
“Legal,” he says. “Finally.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I cannot believe you.”
He steps closer, one hand resting gently at your waist again. “I didn’t want you thinking you were alone. Not even for a second. Even if you had to pretend for a little.”
Your throat tightens.
You glance around again—at the decorations, at the people you love, at the way everyone is watching you like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
“Enjoy it,” he says softly. “It’s all yours.”
You look back at him, eyes glassy but bright.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he smiles. “But I’m your ridiculous.”
You take a sip of the drink, bubbles tickling your nose, and then you turn back toward your friends as they start chanting for music.
For the first time all night, the shock starts to settle into something else.
Joy.
Loud, overwhelming, perfectly chaotic joy.
*****************
A few hours in, the party feels like it’s glowing.
The music is louder. The lights feel softer. Someone has commandeered the aux twice. There are half-empty glasses scattered across every flat surface. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve screamed the lyrics to songs you barely know.
Your heels are long gone—abandoned somewhere near the stage.
You’re currently mid-spin with Sadie, both of you breathless and shrieking to the chorus of something from 2016, when there’s a loud feedback squeal from the mic.
Everyone groans.
You turn toward the stage.
Finn is climbing up, slightly unsteady, one hand holding the microphone, the other bracing himself dramatically on a speaker.
“Oh no,” Caleb mutters somewhere behind you.
Finn taps the mic. “Hello?”
It echoes.
He squints at the crowd. “Okay. I need— I need like, thirty seconds of seriousness.”
No one believes him.
But slowly, people quiet down.
You lean into Sadie, your arm looped through hers, drink in your other hand.
Finn clears his throat.
“So,” he starts, swaying just slightly. “Hi. Again.”
A few cheers.
He points vaguely into the crowd. “You. Birthday girl. Don’t move.”
You freeze mid-sip.
“I want to show everyone something,” he continues. “Something I’ve been working on. Since… 2015.”
There’s a ripple through the room at that.
“When I first got to set,” he says, voice a little steadier now, “I thought I wanted to be a director. So I started filming everything. Like—everything. Behind the scenes. Between takes. Stupid stuff. Random stuff.”
Gaten yells, “You filmed me sleeping once!”
Finn points at him. “Yes. I did.”
Laughter breaks out.
“But I kept doing it,” Finn goes on. “For the next nine years. And I still do it. I just… like capturing things. Moments.”
You blink slowly, trying to track where this is going.
“And recently,” he says, shifting his weight, “I was going through all that footage.”
Your stomach flips.
“And I noticed something.”
He looks directly at you now.
“Over ninety percent of it… is her.”
The room erupts in dramatic “awwws.”
You choke on your drink.
Sadie grabs your arm. “Oh my god.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Finn adds quickly, laughing nervously. “It just did. Every time something funny happened, or something important, or something quiet… somehow she was there.”
Your vision is already getting blurry, and you’re not sure how much of that is alcohol and how much is emotion.
“So,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly shy, “I compiled it. Into one video. For her.”
Sadie lets out the loudest, most feral whoop you’ve ever heard.
You fully collapse into her shoulder, crying.
“I hate him,” you sob.
“No you don’t,” she laughs, holding you up.
The lights dim slightly.
A screen behind the stage flickers on.
Finn steps aside, pressing something on a laptop near the amp.
The video starts.
You don’t even try to keep it together.
You’re crying before it’s ten seconds in, clutching Sadie like she’s a flotation device. At some point, Millie is hugging you from the other side. Gaten hands you a napkin. Your dad is openly emotional. Caleb is dramatically fanning himself.
You laugh through tears. You gasp. You hide your face. You peek again.
The room is filled with warmth and nostalgia and a kind of love that feels too big to fit inside your chest.
When the video ends, there’s a split second of silence.
Then the entire room explodes into applause and cheering.
You don’t think.
You just move.
You stumble toward the stage, slightly uncoordinated, dress clutched in one hand so you don’t trip. Someone helps you up the step.
Finn barely has time to brace himself before you crash into him.
Your arms wrap around his neck so tightly he lets out a soft oof.
“You’re insane,” you cry into his shoulder.
He laughs into your hair. “I’ve heard.”
You pull back just enough to grab his face and kiss him.
The crowd goes absolutely wild.
Someone wolf whistles. Sadie screams. Gaten starts chanting something unintelligible.
You kiss him again, slower this time, hands tangled in his curls.
When you finally pull away, you’re both a little breathless, a little teary, and very aware of the cheering echoing around you.
“You kept all of that?” you whisper.
“Every second,” he says softly.
You press your forehead to his.
“Best birthday ever?” he asks.
You nod, tears still slipping down your cheeks.
“Best birthday ever.”
You’re still holding onto Finn’s jacket when you pull back, wiping under your eyes with the heel of your hand.
The cheering hasn’t really stopped. It’s just softened into this constant buzz of affection and laughter and overlapping voices.
Finn is looking at you like you’ve just handed him the moon.
“Best birthday ever?” he asks again, quieter this time, just for you.
You nod, breath shaky. “It’s perfect.”
He smiles.
Then you tilt your head slightly.
“Okay,” you say slowly, turning back toward the crowd. “There is one thing that could make it better, though.”
A collective gasp ripples through the room.
Finn squints at you. “Oh no.”
You raise a finger dramatically. “Gaten! Noah! Caleb! Stage. Now.”
There’s an immediate eruption of noise.
Sadie, still near the front, doubles over laughing. “Oh my god. I know that tone.”
Caleb points at himself. “Why am I being summoned?”
“Up!” you insist, wobbling slightly as you gesture.
Noah jumps like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life and scrambles toward the stage. Gaten whoops loudly and follows, already hyped. Caleb, dramatically shaking his head, tries to edge backward into the crowd.
“You can’t make me!” he calls.
“Yes, I can!” you shout back.
Finn is watching you with growing suspicion.
“What are you doing?” he asks under his breath.
You ignore him completely and stumble toward the small projector setup Finn used for the video.
Sadie calls out, “Somebody take her drink.”
“Absolutely not!” you yell back, clutching it tighter.
You fumble your phone out of your bag and crouch slightly to plug it into the projector cable. It takes two tries. And maybe three.
The screen behind you flickers to life again.
You turn back to the mic, grabbing it from its stand.
“I,” you announce grandly, “would like a recreation of my favorite video of all time.”
Gaten’s eyes widen instantly.
“No,” Finn says immediately.
“Oh yes,” you counter.
You hit play.
The unmistakable opening of I Want You Back blasts through the speakers, followed by the chaotic, slightly-too-loud energy of teenage boys on live television.
On the screen: fourteen-year-old Finn, Caleb, Noah, Gaten, and James Corden, mid-press tour, singing with all the confidence of kids who don’t yet realize how ridiculous they look.
The room explodes.
People scream. Someone falls over laughing.
Gaten immediately starts hyping himself up. “I KNOW THE CHOREO.”
Caleb tries to bolt off the stage.
“Nope!” you yell, pointing at him. “You live here now!”
Noah jumps up and down, already committing fully.
Finn dives for the mic. “No way. Absolutely not. This was buried.”
“You can’t bury the internet!” you shout.
The video keeps playing—teenage voices cracking, exaggerated dance moves, James Corden looking delighted in the chaos.
Sadie is wheezing.
Your parents are laughing so hard your mom has to lean on your dad.
When the video hits the chorus, Gaten starts singing along at full volume.
“Oh baby give me one more chance—”
The crowd joins in.
Caleb, cornered, gives up and half-commits, swaying reluctantly.
Noah is spinning in circles.
Finn is shaking his head, laughing helplessly into the mic. “She is abusing her birthday privileges!”
“Yes I am!” you cheer.
The video finally ends to thunderous applause and roaring laughter.
Finn doesn’t hesitate.
Before you can queue it again, he scoops you clean off your feet.
You squeal, nearly dropping your phone.
“Finn!” you shriek, laughing uncontrollably.
He reaches back one-handed and unplugs your phone from the projector with impressive efficiency.
“Show’s over,” he declares.
Gaten drops dramatically to his knees. “No! We were just getting started!”
Caleb wipes imaginary sweat from his forehead. “Thank God.”
Noah is still bouncing. “We could totally do it again.”
Gaten looks up hopefully. “Can we at least do karaoke?”
The crowd cheers in agreement.
You twist in Finn’s arms to look at him. “Karaoke.”
He sighs like a man deeply exhausted by love. “Of course.”
“Yes!” Gaten pumps his fist.
Finn carries you toward the edge of the stage like you weigh nothing, the room still buzzing with energy.
“You’re a menace,” he murmurs against your temple.
“You love it,” you reply smugly.
He smiles despite himself. “Unfortunately.”
He carefully lowers you back onto the floor, but keeps one arm around your waist like he doesn’t quite trust you not to wander off and start another production.
The DJ is already switching to karaoke mode. Gaten is aggressively signing up. Noah is arguing over song choices. Caleb is pretending not to be excited.
Sadie wraps an arm around you from the side. “That,” she says, still laughing, “was evil.”
You grin. “I’ve waited years.”
Finn leans down close to your ear as the first karaoke instrumental starts up.
“Are you done hijacking my stage?”
You glance up at him, eyes bright and still slightly glassy.
“For now,” you say.
He squeezes your waist gently.
And as Gaten belts dramatically into the mic and the entire room joins in again, you lean into Finn’s side, heart full, surrounded by noise and light and the people who showed up for you.
