Vampire Next Door ⋆⟡⋆ Miguel O'Hara x reader

Ch. 4 Just a Dream °✥

Bits and pieces of your nightmare flash through your mind, as you try to piece together the plot of last night's storm.

Pouring rain, screams, violent knocking on your door, bloody hands, crimson eyes, Miguel.

You turn over to face the corner where he stood. You squint, the sun blinding you. The window is open a few inches. You swear you closed it shut last night.

You stand up to inspect it. Slowly sinking into the window nook, you open the window up a bit more, letting the cool morning air in.

There are faint scratch marks on the bottom of the window above you. Was that there when you moved in? You trace your fingertips across it, then push it further open.

You climb out onto the fire escape. You look out onto the alley then turn back; you try to recall if you heard the scream from the alley or from Miguel's place. As you turn to climb back inside, you notice a blood stain on the metal under you. You crouch down to observe it. You're not a forensic investigator, but it looks kinda fresh? You wonder if there was more blood that the rain washed away.

You look up for a dripping puddle of blood, but the steel above you is only covered in rust.

You climb back inside.

Was the scream real? Could Miguel really have— no. You sound insane. But there was blood ... and the window was open.

You need some air. You get out of your apartment, go grocery shopping, even stop at a bookstore on the way home, and try to take your mind off things. These past few weeks haven't been easy.

As you drop your groceries in front of your door, pulling your keys out of your purse, your eyes wander to his door.

Maybe he was drunk and stumbled into your place, or maybe the place is haunted. Or maybe someone was really in danger last night.

Either way, you've found a good excuse to bother him, plus it's a Sunday. He might be home.

You knock.

The door opens a crack, then once his eyes find yours, he opens it wide.

"Oh, it's you," he says, in a raspy, morning voice. His deep tone rattles you a bit; it feels like you shouldn't be witnessing him like this ... so sleepy and ... real.

"Good morning to you too," you breathe out.

Your heart skips a beat. He looks tired, disheveled, a beautiful mess. There's some pink in his cheeks, and his hair is perfectly tousled.

Your delusions have been fed, and the butterflies in your stomach are awakened. You wonder if this is how it would feel, waking up to him beside you every morning. You'd never be unhappy. You'd never get headaches. You'd never have nightmares, and if you did, you'd have this dream to wake up to.

He runs a hand through his waves. He's wearing a plain gray tee, snug against his chest, his toned lower stomach outlined through the cotton and he's in plaid ... boxers. You try to ignore how light-headed this scene makes you.

"Yeah, I— sorry to bother you but I—"

"Never a bother,"

You smile, suppress a stupid grin, and remind yourself of the nightmare.

"Ha, yeah, I uh wanted to ask if you heard anything weird last night? I heard a scream, I mean maybe I was dreaming, I don't know,"

You want to tell him you saw him too, but that would sound ... creepy.

"A scream? No, I had a pretty quiet, peaceful night," he says, confidently. Too confident.

"Huh. Yeah, that's the thing, I thought it came from your apartment. Yeah, it sounded like it came from the other side of my wall, which is you know ... your wall,"

He crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame. You look up at him and gulp.

"I told you, I had a quiet night, but maybe try the neighbors upstairs. They're party animals, sex animals too actually."

You tilt your head at him, then stare into space beside him, processing his alibi.

You furrow your eyebrows in thought, and his eyebrows furrow back at you, as he leans to the side to catch your eyes.

"I'm still here."

"Yeah, I can see that. I'm thinking. Can I— don't be weirded out, okay?"

"Why would I— go for it," he sighs.

"Did you, I don't know, like somehow make it to my bedroom last night—"

"What are you—"

"I just— I saw you! In the corner of my room, you were soaked from the rain, and I think you had bloody—"

"Wow, new girl, you've known me one day, and you're already dreaming about me?" He raises his eyebrows and leans down towards you, smirking.

"I'm gonna take that as a 'no.'"

"Yeah no shit it's a 'no.'"

"You had bloody hands, and you were standing there in the corner of my room ... I just thought maybe you had too much to drink or ... smoke. God, excuse me for asking, alright?"

"I mean you know how crazy you sound, right? Me? With bloody hands? In your room? It was just a dream, Y/N. I drink responsibly–"

"Maybe it was symbolic and we just have to interpret this, maybe it means something," you suggest, as his judgemental face becomes softer.

"Or maybe your fantasies are just freaky," he suggests, smirking.

"Yeah, I knew I shouldn't have told you," you say, turning back to your door.

"No, no. I'm sorry, Y/N, I'm sorry, okay? I was kidding," he blurts, stepping out of his apartment.

You turn back around.

"But, Y/N, could you do me one favor?"

You raise your brows, "God, what?"

"Please do update me on every guest appearance I make in that filthy brain of yours," he says, his chuckles breaking his straight face. His deep, annoying laugh awakens the butterflies in your stomach to a flutter.

It echoes in your mind

as you roll your eyes and slam your door.

So he's an asshole

and

a comedian, a side of him you never imagined you'd get close enough to see.

You shut the door and your delusions along with it.