9- New York
something-only-we-know
You wake up and sit up slowly, blinking at the empty side of the bed.
The house is quiet.
You can hear faint movement downstairs — cabinets opening, maybe the coffee machine running.
Joe’s already up.
You swing your legs off the bed, grab your phone from the nightstand, then pull your luggage upright. The wheels click softly against the floor as you drag it toward the door.
Downstairs, Joe is in the kitchen, hoodie on, looking way too awake.
He glances up when he hears you.
“You alive?” he asks.
You drop your bag near the stairs and walk in, running a hand through your hair.
“I’m so excited to go back to my house,” you say, dramatic but serious. “And see my dog.”
Joe smirks. “Oh yeah? Not excited to see me in New York?”
You ignore that.
“I hate LA,” you mumble, grabbing a bottle of water.
He raises an eyebrow. “You loved LA last night.”
You give him a flat look.
“That was temporary.”
He laughs, shaking his head.
New York feels closer already.
A couple hours later, the plane finally lands.
The wheels hit the runway with a soft jolt, and you feel your shoulders relax a little.
New York.
People start standing, grabbing their bags, the quiet shuffle of everyone getting ready to leave.
You turn your phone back on.
Almost immediately, a message pops up.
Manager:
Hey, I know you just landed but you have a fitting today. Hurry up.
You stare at the screen for a second.
Then groan.
Joe glances over. “What?”
You hold up your phone. “My manager.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Already?”
You sigh, standing and grabbing your bag. “Apparently I have a fitting.”
Joe laughs under his breath as you start moving with the line toward the exit.
“Welcome back to New York,” he says.
You shake your head, but you can’t help smiling a little.
No rest.
Just straight back to work.
The Uber pulls up outside your apartment building.
You’re already halfway out of the car before it fully stops.
“Easy,” Joe laughs, grabbing the luggage from the trunk.
“I haven’t seen George in weeks,” you say, practically bouncing on your feet.
Inside, the hallway smells faintly like coffee and someone’s cooking from another apartment.
You unlock the door.
The second it opens—
Paws scrambling across the floor.
“George!” you gasp.
Your dog comes running full speed, tail wagging like crazy, sliding a little on the hardwood before jumping up on you.
You drop your bag and crouch down immediately, laughing as he licks your face.
“I missed you too!” you say, rubbing his ears.
Joe leans against the doorway watching, amused.
“Wow,” he says. “So that’s the famous George.”
George runs over to him next, sniffing curiously.
Joe crouches down and lets him smell his hand. “Alright, man. Guess I’m staying here.”
George’s tail keeps wagging.
You stand up, still smiling.
Your phone buzzes again.
You sigh. “I have to go to that fitting.”
Joe looks over. “Already?”
“Yeah,” you say, slipping your shoes back on.
You give George one last quick scratch behind the ears and head for the door.
You step out of the car and into the cool New York air.
The studio building is already buzzing — people walking in and out, racks of clothes being rolled through the lobby.
Inside, it’s even more chaotic.
Stylists everywhere. Steamers hissing. Shoes scattered across the floor.
Your manager spots you immediately.
“Finally,” she says, rushing over. “We’re already behind.”
You drop your bag on a chair.
“Good morning to you too,” you mutter.
A stylist grabs your arm gently. “Come on, we need you in the first look.”
You sigh but follow her toward the fitting room.
You step onto the small platform while a stylist pulls the dress into place.
Another one is fixing your hair. Someone else is adjusting the lights.
The room is loud.
“Try the black heels.”
“No, the silver ones look better.”
“The neckline needs to be tighter.”
You stand there with your arms slightly out while three different people pull and pin fabric.
“Can I breathe?” you ask dryly.
No one answers.
Your manager glances at you from across the room.
“Five more looks,” she says.
You stare at her.
“Five?”
She shrugs. “Welcome back to New York.”
Then the studio door opens.
The designer walks in.
The room quiets a little as he scans the space.
His eyes land on you.
He studies the dress for a moment, then a smile spreads across his face.
“Finally,” he says. “The person this dress was made for.”
A couple of stylists exchange relieved looks.
Your manager steps closer to the platform.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she says quietly.
“There are paparazzi outside.”
You let out a small sigh.
“Already?”
She shrugs
The designer is still watching from across the room.
After a moment, he walks closer to the platform.
He studies the dress again, then looks up at you.
“I want you to open the show,” he says.
For a second, the room goes quiet.
Your manager’s eyes widen a little.
“You’re serious?” she asks.
He nods once. “Completely.”
You blink, processing it.
“Okay,” you say slowly.
He smiles like that’s exactly the answer he expected.
A few minutes later, you change back into your clothes and grab your bag.
Your manager opens the studio door.
The second you step outside—
Cameras start flashing.
Voices shout your name.
“Y/N! Over here!”
“Look this way!”
You don’t stop.
You slide your sunglasses on and pull your wired headphones from your bag, plugging them into your phone.
The music starts, drowning out the shouting.
Without saying a word, you walk past the cameras and down the street, the cold New York air hitting your face.
Flashes follow you for a few steps.
Then less.
Then none.
The city noise slowly takes over — taxis, people talking, traffic moving.
You keep walking toward your apartment like it’s just another day.
You unlock the apartment and step inside.
George runs up immediately, tail wagging as he circles your legs.
You smile and bend down to pet him. “Hi, baby.”
After a moment, you walk down the hallway toward your bedroom.
The door is slightly open.
You push it open and see Joe Keery stretched across your bed, completely asleep.
George jumps up beside him, making the mattress shift a little.
Joe groans quietly but doesn’t really wake up.
You walk over and lightly nudge his shoulder.
“Move,” you mumble.
He shifts over half-asleep, barely opening his eyes.
You climb onto the bed next to him and lay down, exhaling as you sink into the pillows.
George curls up at the end of the bed like he belongs there.
Joe mumbles something under his breath, still half asleep.
“You’re back already?”
“Yeah,” you mumble, eyes already closing.
“Fitting good?” he asks lazily.
You sigh into the pillow.
“I’m opening the show.”
There’s a small pause.
Even half asleep, Joe lets out a quiet, impressed breath.
“Damn.”
The room goes quiet again.
Within minutes, the three of you drift into sleep.
