He waits for you, standing tall in front of your apartment door. He's got a motorcycle jacket on, a dark navy t-shirt under, tasteful worn out jeans, and he's carrying a box full of your room decor; it's like a manifestation of your 18 year old fantasy delivered right to your door.
You approach him. He looks down at you, offering a slanted smile, still standoffish, but you can tell he's trying.
He was a focused student then. He paid no mind to the eyes glued on him as he rushed to class, or maybe he was too oblivious to notice. Eyebrows knit together, as he rummaged through his notes, all while walking at the same time. He had very few friends, kept to himself, and was envied by his academic competition, so it made sense why he was the way he was. And it, of course, made you want him even more.
You scramble to pull your keys from your back pocket.
"Got them," you mutter nervously, avoiding eye contact with him. He tilts his head, watching you. You open the door, and he takes a step back to let you walk in first.
He follows behind you as you reach the kitchen counter.
"You can leave it right here. Thank you, Miguel," His name feels new, weird on your tongue, but you like it.
"No problem," he replies, placing the box on the counter. "So this is what it looks like in here," he says, surveying the spread of the place, as he takes his jacket off.
"Yep, this is it," you smile, watching him from the side, "Feel free to take a look around."
He's huge, and tall, way taller than you remember, but this is also the closest you've ever been to him. He runs a hand through his hair slowly, biceps flexing as he wanders around the barren apartment. He could destroy you. If you hadn't had a massive crush on him all this time, you'd think it insane to let a beast like him into your apartment.
But you admire him.
You take in this sight of Miguel. You know this is the only possible way the Miguel O'Hara would ever willingly come into your home.
You step back and watch his eyes explore your new home. His hair is tousled, and his outfit doesn't look like Alchemax attire.
You force yourself to talk; you don't know when you'll see him next.
"Did you just come back from work, or school?"
He tucks his hands into his front jean pockets, shaking his head.
"No, I was umm just out, running some errands," he says, looking you up and down.
Did you overstep? Or had he just not had the chance to fully look at you?
"Hey, you never told me your name," he says, eyebrows furrowing, as he walks up to you.
"Y/N," you blurt, looking up at him.
"Y/N, Y/N, Y/N. Pretty and hard to forget," he says, smiling down at you, as he slowly towers over you.
Seeing his real smile evokes your real smile immediately. His crimson eyes stare into yours; you could stare into them forever, if you weren't blushing and panicking internally.
"So you're my neighbor, huh. Perfect timing running into you on the stairs there," you say, breaking eye contact.
"Yeah, I don't ordinarily take the stairs, but today felt different ... just wanted to try something new,"
"So you ordinarily take the elevator?"
He tilts his head, "Yes, yeah the elevator."
You back away and head for the pile of boxes on the floor.
You ignore the fact that Miguel O'Hara is standing in your apartment. You have to start somewhere.
You kneel on the floor, looking through the boxes, trying to find a place to start.
He stands behind you, watching you, almost analyzing you. You look up at him to find him watching you intently, like he's trying to read your mind.
What is he thinking?
You look back at the boxes, pretending to be unfazed by his attention to you. You brush the hair out of your face, and take a deep breath, hoping the red in your cheeks will fade away.
"You look familiar," he mutters, crossing his arms.
You look familiar? To Miguel O'Hara?
You always thought there was a slight chance he was aware of your existence. You had one class with him; he was a TA and you were a student. It was a huge lecture hall, three hundred people. So he couldn't have. There's no way he ever noticed you sitting in the back of the class. He graded your work. That's all.
He consistently left thoughtful annotations on your work, notes that you read too much into, but they were always helpful and you found them ... sweet. You always aced your coursework, maybe here and there he marked you down a point for going above the word count, but you aced them nonetheless. And he saw that.
Maybe he does remember you and he's just fucking with you. In that case, you'll fuck him right back.
"I get that a lot," you mutter, looking back at the mess you're digging into.
"Hmm I'll figure it out," he says, shrugging confidently, like he's onto you. You've learned quite a bit about him today. The way he acts, the way he talks, how he carries himself. You've gotten a pretty generous glimpse into the new Miguel.
"You do that," you mutter.
You lift the box up from the floor and carry it to the restroom. He follows behind you. You're flattered but also slightly confused by how long he's been accompanying you.
You leave the box on the closed toilet seat, and begin to unpack your things onto the sink counter. Miguel stands in the doorway, watching.
His arms are crossed as he leans against the door frame. You look at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his forearms bursting with muscle, his dark blue tee snug exposing the outline of his abs, his gray briefs peeking out under his jeans.
"You must really think you know me, stranger ... watching me unpack in my new home," you say sarcastically, looking up at his reflection.
"Yeah, I figure if I stick around a bit, it'll come to me, just need a bit more to work with," he shrugs.
You scoff. "Okay, let me know when it comes to you."
"I will," he says, nodding, his eyes still on you.
You hear a hard thump, then shuffling coming from the other side of the wall beside you, his apartment.
You both sharply turn to look at each other.
His eyes widen a bit; his stare becomes focused, he's trying to listen, figure out what that noise was. Shouldn't he know?
"You live with someone?" you ask, standing up straight to turn and face him, slightly alarmed by how loud the thump sounded.
"No ... I uh, I'm dog-sitting for a friend,"
"You're a terrible dog-sitter, over here bothering your neighbor instead of checking on the poor thing," you tease.
"Yeah, I'll go take care of him now," he says, standing up straight, then heading for the door. You follow behind him.
He grabs his jacket from the counter as you open the door for him. He stops right outside, between your two doors, his apartment being right across the hall, six feet in front of yours.
"It was nice meeting you," he says, nodding. He smiles, then begins to unlock his door, looking back at you, "And Y/N, if you ever need me, I'm right across the hall, so just knock, and I'll be here. Uhh except at night, I'm usually ... out, at work."
"Got it. Thanks," you smile, hiding behind your half-open door.
You watch as he unlocks the door, and opens it a few inches.
You hear a muffled whine. Neglected puppy.
"Shit," he breathes out.
He looks back at you eyebrows furrowed, then looks down and flinches, before looking up to flash you a forced small smile.
"Ha yeah, gotta help the little guy, I'll– uh I'll catch you later," he says, blocking the crack of his open door with his backside.
"Catch you later," you nod.
You both shut your doors.
︶꒦꒷ ❦︎ ꒷꒦︶
You've unpacked a bit, showered, and finally, after a long, exhausting day, night has fallen.
You curl up in bed, your room cold and empty, besides the little corner of the bed you occupy, lit up by the warm light your beloved stained glass lamp provides. Your eyes rest on the colors reflecting on the wall, as you reminisce about Miguel back in university, and the Miguel you met today.
Miguel O'Hara was in your apartment, talking to you, interested in what you had to say and who you were. Okay, but it's not like he's some huge celebrity, he's just a ... big deal in the science world ... and the biggest crush you've ever had.
He's not any cooler than you. He's not. You're cool. You're smart. You're hot.
The rain beats against the window, pattering and lulling you to sleep. You turn off your side lamp, and cover yourself up. You're exhausted from the move, and you know this is going to be some real deep sleep. You close your eyes and drift off.
You toss and turn, your deep sleep holding you hostage to nightmares of screams and glowing crimson eyes.
A muffled scream wakes you up. You sit up in pure darkness, sweating and breathing heavily. Was that a part of the dream? Or was that real?
You see a figure in the corner of the room. You squint, your vision blurry and recovering from your sleep.
The moonlight glows against the window, illuminating the wet rain beating against the glass, the noise pounding and disorienting you.
It's Miguel.
The moonlight creeps in, lighting up the side of his face.
He's soaked. His t-shirt wet against his body, hair dripping onto his face. There's blood on his hands.
You quickly turn to pull the lamp on.
You turn back. He's gone.
You lay back down, ignoring what had just happened and accept it as a part of your dream.
You haven't gotten a full night's sleep in days. You're emotionally drained, physically drained, and extremely sleep deprived. You doze off to sleep.
That was the first night you dreamt of Miguel O'Hara, the first of many.