“Shut up,” Cassie says sweetly. “It’s tradition now. Every major stream day, I bring the chaos. And the carbs.”
James slaps Carter on the back like they’ve been best friends for years. “You ready to scream from the sidelines again, bro?”
Carter winces. “I’ll try to keep it together.”
“Don’t lie,” I say. “You almost cried when she hit that final kill last round.”
Haven snorts into her drink. “Leave him alone. He’s emotionally in tune.”
Carter flips me off behind her back. I grin. But the energy shifts just a little when James turns to me.
“You’re playing today too, right?” he asks.
I nod once, jaw tightening. “Yeah.”
“Finals material?”
“I plan to win.”
Cassie leans in close to Haven, whispering not-so-quietly, “Your boy’s got murder eyes again.”
“Yeah,” Haven says with a small, knowing smile. “That’s how I know he’s ready.”
For a moment, it all feels surreal—this mix of intensity and chaos, friends and fire, everyone orbiting Haven like she’s the sun we’re all trying to keep burning.
But that’s what this is. Her moment. And I’ll burn the whole goddamn bracket down to make sure she gets it; including myself.
While everyone is chatting in the front room I take the moment to myself to I boot up my monitor just to check one last thing, but the second my Twitch homepage loads, I freeze.
It’s weird seeing my face like this. Banner art, overlays, panels—it all looks way too polished now. Like I’m supposed to be a brand instead of just a guy who plays like he’s got a vendettaagainst pixels. I scroll down past the stream countdown, past the chat popping off with pre-match hype, and land on the replay clips. Most are chaos—me screaming, cursing, the kill cam spinning like a fever dream but there are a few quieter ones. Strategy breakdowns. Late-night training streams. A clip of Haven laughing through comms after I accidentally called her “my girl” during a solo push.
I don’t delete it because it’s not about hiding anymore. This whole stream? It’s proof. That I’ve changed, that I give a damn. That I’m not just noise in the background of her story.
I used to stream for the rage. Now I stream for the proof that I was here.
The apartment has quieted,mostly.Carter’s in the bedroom doing something that probably involves sticky notes, a Twitch dashboard, and that very specific furrowed brow he gets when he’s trying to “optimize vibes.”
Cassie and James left with promises to watch the stream from their apartment.
Which leaves me alone in the living room, staring at my monitor like it’s staring back.
The pressure isn’t just hers anymore. It’s ours. I feel it in my chest, tightening with every breath. In my hands, still and useless on my lap. In my fucking head, running scenarios like I’m prepping for war.
And for the first time since this whole tournament started I hate to admit I’m nervous.
Not the jittery, twitchy kind. Theif I fuck this up, I might actually break somethingkind.
“Hey.”
I turn to find Haven leaning against the couch, her hair pulled into a messy braid. She crosses the room without waiting for me to speak, climbs into my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and wraps her arms around my neck.
“Your heart’s beating so fast,” she murmurs against my jaw.
“Yours too,” I whisper back.
Then she shifts in my lap—just slightly—but enough to make me suck in a sharp breath.
She gives me a tiny smirk. “Distracted?”
