mymindpov

[mymindpov]

Pedro pascal x singer reader

Summary: y/n meet someone without know he gonna change her live forever

A/N : hi lovely people i decided share my short story of Pedro pascal and singer reader tell me what you think about this story in comments :)

English is not my first language!!

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CHAPTER ONE: THE FIRST NOTE

The lights backstage were dimmer than Y/N expected. Not in a moody, glamorous way—more like someone forgot to change the bulbs. Her palms were sweating despite the chill in the air, and her manager’s voice buzzed in her ear like static.

“You’re on in ten. Remember what we talked about—breathe, smile, hit the notes. You’ve got this.”

She nodded, lips tight. She didn’t need reminders; she needed air. Maybe less eyeliner. Maybe less everything. It was her first live performance, and the crowd out there wasn’t some open mic audience at a café. This was a real industry crowd. Executives. Agents. Names she’d only seen in Variety headlines.

And then there was him.

Pedro Pascal.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. At least, not according to the last briefing she got. He was on the guest list but people like that never actually show up. But someone said they saw him arrive. Front row. Alone.

Y/N wiped her hands on her skirt and tried not to throw up.

Pedro Pascal was fifty. A movie star. A real one—not an influencer turned actor or a flavor-of-the-month heartthrob. He had presence. He walked into a room and oxygen got self-conscious.

And Y/N? She was just a girl with a song and a maybe-decent voice.

When her name was called, the world tilted.

The curtain parted and the spotlight locked onto her like a sniper. She stepped out, heart racing, lips parted slightly as if to catch her breath. Her heels clicked like gunshots. The piano intro began. Soft. Barely there.

Y/N lifted the mic. Her voice didn’t shake. It should’ve, but it didn’t.

She sang.

For three minutes, the room disappeared. She forgot about the crowd, the cameras, the way her manager had begged her not to wear the combat boots with the silk dress. Her voice carried—clear, unguarded, raw. Not perfect. But real.

When it ended, silence hit harder than applause.

Then came the sound. Loud. Surprising. Real applause. A few standing. A few stunned. And yes—him.

Pedro Pascal stood slowly, like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to. Then he clapped—three solid beats. That was all. Then he sat again.

Y/N walked off stage like her shoes were filled with helium.

⸻

Backstage was chaos. Her manager was vibrating. A publicist tried to hand her a sparkling water and missed. Everyone was talking.

“—she killed it—”

“—did you see Pedro—”

“—she’s nineteen?!”

And then—

“Y/N.”

It wasn’t a shout. It cut through the noise anyway.

She turned. Pedro Pascal stood just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, casual like this wasn’t her existential nightmare of a night.

Up close, he looked exactly like himself and nothing like she imagined. Lines around his eyes, tired but kind. A mouth that looked like it knew how to keep secrets. And something else—something she couldn’t name.

He smiled. “That was incredible.”

Y/N blinked. “Thank you.”

“You write that?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He paused. “You’ve got guts.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, looking down.

“No, really,” he said. “I’ve seen people twice your age with half your nerve.”

She laughed, unsure what to do with that kind of compliment. “Well… I’m either brave or stupid.”

“Sometimes it’s the same thing.”

That made her smile. For the first time all night, she relaxed.

He glanced down at her boots. “Combat boots and a silk dress. Interesting choice.”

“They told me not to.”

He nodded, amused. “Then definitely the right choice.”

Silence stretched for a beat—comfortable. Not the awkward kind. The kind that made the skin behind her ears prickle, like something unspoken had been exchanged.

Pedro cleared his throat. “Anyway. I just wanted to say that. You’ve got something. Don’t let them polish it out of you.”

Y/N felt something shift. Like the floor had changed shape.

“Thanks,” she said. “That… means a lot.”

He gave her one last look—a look with a weight she couldn’t quite unpack. Respect. Curiosity. Maybe even a little wonder.

Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N stood still, heart rattling in her chest.

Somewhere, someone shouted her name.

But all she could think about was the way he looked at her like she was already someone.