My American Nightmare • Spencer Charnas x reader

0.5

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4:36 AM at the
Hotel Room
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Y/n Pov

Startled awake by a scream from the TV, I blinked groggily, realizing that A Nightmare On Elm Street was playing. Though it was the original, a classic in its own right, the sudden jolt was enough to send shivers down my spine. Waking up to a scream from a horror movie in a hotel room was certainly not my idea of a pleasant morning.

Deciding to shake off the residual unease, I rose from the bed and made my way into the main room, intending to fetch a drink from the kitchen area. However, what greeted me was unexpected—Spencer was already awake, his expression drawn and fatigued.

"You couldn't sleep?" I questioned, concern lacing my words as I took in his tired demeanor. Spencer glanced at me, his sigh heavy with exhaustion. "You see, I get these nightmares, and let's just say they sometimes don't affect me or sometimes do. If you'd like to know, the one I had did affect me," he explained before turning his attention back to the TV, which was now playing A Nightmare On Elm Street—a strange coincidence given the circumstances.

Sitting down beside Spencer, I accepted the portion of his blanket he offered, grateful for the warmth it provided. As he remained fixated on the TV, I couldn't shake the nagging curiosity about the nightmare he had experienced.

"So, what kind of nightmare did you have?" I inquired, hoping to offer some semblance of comfort or support.

"Let's keep that a secret," he replied cryptically, his tone guarded.

"Would you like to elaborate?" I pressed, determined to understand the source of his distress.

Spencer glanced at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "I didn't know you were my fucking therapist," he retorted sharply, his words stinging with hostility.

"I never said I was your therapist," I countered, taken aback by his sudden defensiveness.

"Then why do you care?" he challenged, his gaze piercing.

"I'd consider us friends now, so I care about you," I explained, hoping to ease the tension between us.

"We are not friends, I don't know you, and you don't know me, y/n," he asserted bluntly, his words landing like a slap in the face.

"Okay, so wrong choice of words, but I'd like to get to know you," I muttered, feeling a sense of frustration creeping in.

"What's your favorite scary movie?" he asked, his question catching me off guard.

I glared at him, unimpressed by his attempt at diversion. "Definitely not that one!" I replied tersely, my annoyance evident.

He chuckled, unfazed by my response. "Well, that is my favorite one, so strike one, y/n," he remarked casually, his words sending a chill down my spine.

"What the hell do you mean strike one, Spencer?" I demanded, my confusion giving way to growing unease.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Just don't get three strikes," he warned cryptically, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

My mind raced with questions, the implications of his words weighing heavily on me. What would happen if I reached three strikes?

"I-" I began, struggling to find the right words to express my apprehension.

"You look a little disturbed," Spencer observed, his hand suddenly resting on my thigh, sending a jolt of fear through me.

"I thought you wanted to know me, y/n, and yet here you are, trying to run away," he remarked coolly, his gaze unwavering.