You’ve known Finn for so long that it’s hard to remember a version of your life without him orbiting somewhere nearby.

Auditions, table reads, long shoots that blur into each other. You filmed a few projects together before Stranger Things, but Hawkins is where everything really locked in place. Your role was technically “side,” but you were there — in most episodes, woven into the story, into the group, into the rhythm of filming days that stretched forever.

You and Finn clicked immediately.

Same weird humor. Same love for the awkward joke that lands just a second too late. Same way of coping with stress by being a little ridiculous. On set, you were inseparable — whispering during takes, sharing headphones between scenes, laughing so hard you got shushed by crew members.

Somewhere along the way, the band happened.

It wasn’t even planned. Just late nights, a guitar lying around, you humming something under your breath. Finn joining in without asking. You sang. He played. It felt natural, like it had always been waiting to exist.

You treated him like a friend. Always had.

But you weren’t blind.

The way he looked at you — not quick glances, but lingering ones, like he was memorizing something. The way he got quieter when you were close, then louder when he was nervous. The way he denied everything a little too fast when someone teased him.

You knew he liked you.

He never said it. Never crossed a line. And you never named what wasn’t there, even though he knew. He always knew.

He was perfect as a friend. Maybe even the best you’d ever had.

But he wasn’t… what you thought you wanted.

Too skinny. Too scrawny. Too awkward in that teenage way. You told yourself you wanted someone different — someone older, stronger, louder. A real man, whatever that meant in your head.

Still, you liked the attention. Liked knowing he chose you, every time.

Recently, though… something shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic. No big moment. Just a slow change in the air.

He tried more. Not in an obvious way — just always there. Always offering help. Always listening a little harder. Standing a little closer.

And you noticed.

Today, it’s just the two of you.

The rest of the band couldn’t make it — parents, schedules, excuses that didn’t matter. Your basement smells faintly like dust and old wood, amps humming softly, cables sprawled everywhere.

You sit on the floor with lyrics scribbled in a notebook. Finn stands nearby, guitar hanging low, fingers absentmindedly plucking strings as he watches you.

Not your mouth.

Your face.

“You ready?” he asks, voice casual but careful.

“Yeah,” you say, glancing up. “Whenever.”

You sing.

Your voice fills the basement — raw, unpolished, real. Finn plays like he’s afraid to overpower you, like he’s following your lead instead of the other way around. When you finish, the sound lingers.

Silence.

“That was…” He stops himself, rubs the back of his neck. “That was really good.”