Imagines: Not Only in Your Dreams

“I’ve heard you’re a fan,” Channing jumps in, before you go ahead and embarrass yourself by saying anything stupid.

Distant memories of the year you spent sleeping with a life-size Channing Tatum doll pop into your head. “Yeah,” you mumble. “I guess you could say that.” Your cheeks quickly become bright red.

“That’s really cool, you know?”

“It is?” You’re surprised; everyone else in the world seems to find your obsession really . . . sad.

“Hellz yeah!”

You try to keep a straight face, but you can’t take your mind off Channing Tatum’s having actually just spoken those two words to you, in all seriousness, while standing in your dorm room. This definitely can’t be happening for real.

“You know, I’m actually a fan of yours too.”

You shoot him a look. “What?” How can he be a fan of you? You’re not even famous!

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been to every single one of your dance classes to watch you practice. I think you’re amazing.” He smiles. “I’ve got a bit of a crush on you, if I’m really honest.”

You pinch the skin on the back of your hand. Nope, still awake. “That’s . . . insane.”

Channing laughs. “Why?”

You take a deep breath and try to remain calm. “No reason.” There is absolutely no way you’re going to admit to Channing Tatum that you’ve got a crush on him. Nope. No way. Nada.

“When I kissed you on that stage, it was like an epiphany. I realized I’ve never enjoyed kissing anybody else as much as I enjoyed kissing you. Those two seconds weren’t enough—I wanted more.” His green eyes are bright with an energy that turns your pulse erratic. “I’ve never met anybody with such amazing upper-arm strength. . . .” He looks down at your arms in wonder. “Or such tender lips.”

He brings his hand up to your face and runs the tip of his finger over your bottom lip. You shiver at the touch.

“And you’ve got the firmest grip I’ve ever felt.” He puffs his cheeks out and shakes his head. “Man, thinking about all three of those things at once is making me hot.”

You take a step forward, so that the tips of your toes touch. This is far better than any fantasy you’ve ever made up. Driven by an overwhelming passion, you lift your face up to his and sigh.

“Kiss me again, Channing,” you say. “I’m all yours.”

He doesn’t waste a moment. Letting the note drop to the floor, he lifts you up off your feet and presses you back against the wall. You drape your hands over his shoulders, locking your legs around his waist, and let him kiss you slowly until you run out of breath.

“I’ve never felt this way for anyone else,” he breathes into your ear, as he begins kissing along your jaw. “I think I might love you.”

“What about Jenna?” You panic, pulling back to look him in the face.

“I don’t care about her.” His honest eyes pierce into your own. “She’s nothing to me anymore. I want you.”

“Wow. That’s quite a statement, Channing!”

You jump at the sound of the third voice, and both of you turn toward the open door in shock. Two reporters stand there, one snapping your photo with his camera, the other making notes on a notepad.

Expecting Channing to freak out, you begin to remove your legs from around his waist—but to your surprise, he flips you around and pulls you up into his arms instead, kissing you on the tip of the nose.

“Publish it in all the newspapers,” he shouts out, “and plaster it on the internet! I’m in love—finally!” He pushes past the reporters and starts to jog down the corridor, carrying you along effortlessly in his big, strong arms.

“Where are we going?” You laugh, throwing your head back and catching him around the neck.

“We’re going to tell the world! I want everyone to know. I love you!”

Still laughing, you let him carry you through the corridors, past dozens of surprised onlookers, until you finally make it to the grand hall. Bursting through the doors, Channing shouts for everyone’s attention. “I have an announcement to make!” Finally, he places you down on two feet and pulls you into the middle of the dance floor, where a curious crowd quickly gathers. “This beautiful, talented dancer you watched perform onstage with me tonight,” he tells the crowd, “has stolen my heart.”

An impressed murmur travels through the crowd. People beam at you from all angles.

As you blush and giggle in your scruffy clothes, Channing falls to his knee in front of you. “Darling,” he says, clearing his throat. His green eyes glisten with the reflection of the disco ball hanging overhead. “Will you marry me?”

Of course, there’s only one answer. You’ve waited your whole life for this moment. Even though you’re sure you’ll wake up tomorrow to find out it was all just one fabulous dream, you still squeal with joy and wrap your arms around Channing’s neck as you shout out, “Yes!”

SATURDAY MORNING. You wake up in a huge bed to find a bleary-eyed Channing Tatum staring back at you. But this isn’t the life-size doll you took to bed with you that one year—no, this is the real thing.

“Good morning,” he mumbles sleepily, pulling you close and kissing your forehead.

You smile and push yourself up in the bed. Outside, the sun is shining, and you realize the butler has already been in and left a breakfast tray on the side table.

“Oh, look! He’s left us a newspaper too.” You yawn and reach across to take it, wondering whether the dance show made the headlines. “Oh, no.”

Channing looks up. “What’s the matter?”

“I guess they couldn’t resist.”

You pass the newspaper across and laugh with him at the front-page headline: “Channing Tatum Proposes to Crotch-Grabbing Mystery Dancer.”

“Hey, I almost forgot to ask.” He turns to face you now. “Crotch-Grabber, what is your real name?”

A New Connection

Leigh Ansell

Imagine . . .

Your expectations might’ve been slightly unrealistic when you first moved to London a few months ago.

Imagine that.

Living in the heart of the capital meant everything was on your doorstep, and you’d kind of assumed that’d be reason enough to be out every night, living the type of wild London lifestyle all those reality shows had promised. You envisioned top-floor penthouses, a trendy group of friends, sipping cocktails in bars you couldn’t afford. No one thought to mention that the reality of being a freelance writer in the capital would be a little less glitzy.

Instead of being out partying until 3:00 a.m., your weeknight evenings have lately been taking on a significantly tamer routine, and today is no exception. It’s Tuesday, and though you should be working on your article due at the end of the week, your spot on the sofa has never felt comfier. With YouTube open on your laptop, there might be no need to move for hours yet.

Which is fine. You’ve got days to finish the article, and watching old Dan Howell videos back-to-back is a perfectly good use of your time. Kind of.

You’re two minutes into one of your favorites, “Internet Support Group,” when the sound of knocking cuts across the living room. Closing the laptop, you get to your feet, confused about who’d be visiting at this time. You’re not expecting anybody; your best friend’s working late, and since all other members of your family refuse to live anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of central London, there’s nobody else in the city who would want to see you.

Pulling open the door, you get the shock of your life.

There, standing face-to-face with you, is none other than the guy you’

ve spent the last hour watching through a computer screen: your next-door neighbor, Dan Howell.

It shouldn’t have come as a huge surprise. You realized he and Phil lived in the apartment next door two days after you moved in, when you first bumped into each other in the hall. Still, months later, and you’ve yet to move past the polite-but-awkward greetings that ensue whenever you cross paths. You’d rather die than have him realize you’re one of the five million plus avid viewers of his YouTube channel, keeping up with his videos from the other side of your shared wall.

But, for some reason, he’s here, standing in front of you, looking slightly flushed and clutching a laptop in one hand.

“Hi,” you say, because you’re not sure what else to do.

“Hi,” he begins, with a slightly odd smile. “I’m Dan, your next-door neighbor. I appreciate this is a really weird way to have a first conversation, but is there any chance you could spare your Wi-Fi connection for half an hour?”

For a moment, all you manage to do is stare, your mouth hanging slightly open. “Uh . . .”

“Let me explain. See, I do this thing where I make videos on the internet—”

But you already know what’s coming, and you cut in before he has to get too far into the awkward I-swear-this-is-a-real-job spiel. “Your YouTube channel,” you say, with a knowing smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard of it.”

Relief breaks across his expression. “Oh, good. I suppose that makes things a little less weird. See, the thing is, I’m due on a live broadcast right at this minute, and my friend Phil has chosen a really stupid time to start downloading the world’s longest compilation of cat videos.”

It’s weird, seeing him standing in front of you, when you’ve spent so long watching him crack similar jokes from behind a screen. Your fifteen-year-old self would probably be passed out on the floor already. All you can do is thank God you’ve since reined in your fangirl tendencies.

“So, what I’m trying to ask here—could I possibly crouch in the corner of your living room for half an hour? You won’t even know I’m there. Well, you might hear a bit of pointless rambling, but I’ll try to keep it down.”