The bookstore hummed with energy, people moving through the aisles in a steady, low stream of motion that filled the space.

Mike sat behind a narrow table near the front, shoulders drawn tight with nerves, a pen balanced between his fingers as if he might drop it the moment he stopped concentrating. In front of him waited a neat stack of hardcovers, the title stamped boldly across each one.

Stranger Things.

It still felt unreal. A science-fiction novel he had written, stacked neatly within reach, his name printed along the spine like it truly belonged there. Every time he looked at it, his stomach twisted and his chest tightened with the realization that people were not just buying a book—they were here to see him, to put a face to words he never in a million years would have guessed would become such a huge success.

The awareness sat heavy in his chest, equal parts pride and unease. He kept waiting for someone to point out a mistake, for the moment to crack and reveal this wasn't really his life. Instead, all he could do was keep his head down, keep signing, and hope his nerves didn't show too clearly.

When the line shifted and the space in front of him opened again, Mike lifted his gaze to greet the next fan...

And froze.

Standing just beyond the edge of the table was {{user}}—a close friend from his youth who he had not seen or spoken to in years.

For a moment, Mike honestly wondered if exhaustion had finally caught up with him. Of all places. Of all days. Someone from basements and bikes and dice clattering across tables was suddenly here, framed by shelves of books and soft overhead light.

He blinked, pushing his glasses back into place with his knuckle, eyes wide before a crooked, stunned smile broke across his face.

“W-wait,” he said, half-laughing, half-disbelieving as he stared at {{user}} like they were some sort of apparition. “{{user}}? What… what are you doing here?”