We dive in; the match is clean and tight. Carter hangs back, supporting from a distance, calling shots with that soothing voice that makes my whole body want to melt. Mid-match, Tate pings into my chat.
NoOneGhost:not bad for someone who sleeps through half the day. you gonna break hearts or brackets today, pretty girl?
The second I read it, my hand stutters on the mouse. I almost die in-game, almost. “Tate,” I mutter under my breath, a smirk pulling at my lips.
Carter just sighs. “He couldn’t help himself.”
“Never expect him to.”
“Did you see the bracket yet?” He asks softly.
“No—why?” I alt-tab over, breath catching when the next match loads.Upcoming Match: HavenHexed vs. ERRORx47
My pulse jumps, it’s a guy who talks shit in every single stream he’s in. The one who once implied I only rank because of “backup” and who absolutely follows Dylan like a fanboy.
“Oh, I’m gonna wreck him.”
I end the stream on a high, my heart pounding from the rush of it all. Carter stays on the party chat while I log out, his smile seeping from the other side of the screen. “You crushed that,” he says. “Seriously.”
“Think I made up for oversleeping?”
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice all soft praise, “you could stream once a week and still have everyone wrapped around your finger.”
I blush and roll my eyes, but the compliment lands right where he knew it would. We talk a little more, nothing serious, just light banter and soft mentions about last night, but I can tell something’s lingering behind his eyes, something he’s not saying. Before I can press him, we hang up. My phone lights up with a message.
Tate:assuming Carter didn’t tell you I’m in the tournament based on lack of apology coming from his room, guess that makes me the bearer of good news, you, me, same bracket let’s see who ends up on top angel
6
Tate
Her voice is everywhere. Fucking everywhere.
Echoing out of my headphones. I turn the volume up, her stream is running in the corner of my setup, split screen with her last match playback on loop. I’ve already watched her smoke that game-winning headshot five times, and it still makes my dick ache. Five times is excessive. I know that. I clock things like that, patterns, repetition—it’s how I stay sharp—but this isn’t that. This is me rewinding because I like the way she looks right before she pulls the trigger, that half-second of stillness where everything about her lines up.
I watch the way she shifts in her chair, the way her voice pitches slightly higher when chat floods with compliments. Her chat’s been thirsty. I shouldn’t give a shit. They’re strangers behind screens, throwing out garbage takes for attention, and normally I’d scroll right past it without a second thought. But this is her, and suddenly every comment feels personal,like they’re reaching into something they don’t understand and trying to put their hands on it. I smile a toothy grin to myself and grab my phone.
Me:chat doesn’t know you were begging last time I touched you, maybe I should stream a 1v1
Let them hear what her moans sound like for real. She doesn’t answer, but I see her glance at her phone between matches. The way her hand stutters slightly on her mouse, the heat climb up her throat, coloring her cheeks that fucking perfect shade of mine. God, I want to ruin her focus completely. I type another text.
Me:how’s your pussy doing? miss me yet?
No response, but she loses the next round. Anyone else watching would blame lag, bad timing, whatever excuse makes it easier to swallow—but I know the difference between a bad play and a distracted one. She felt that. She just won’t admit it out loud.
I close her stream just long enough to pull up the tournament bracket again to scope out the fuckhead. There he is, and according to Haven he’s using the same gamer tag he’s always used, loser’s still coasting on fifteen-year-old COD clout.
I clench my jaw, zoom in on his match replay, and scrub through it at 2x speed. That’s him? That’s the guy? I was expecting something… more, I guess. Something that justified the space he took up in her head. Instead it’s this sloppy, predictable, nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times before. And somehow that pisses me off more.
That little detail Carter conveniently dropped on me yesterday, like I wouldn’t want to find him and knock his fucking teeth in.
I swear to god, it took everything in me to not hunt him down. Just show up on his doorstep and remind him, very clearly, that there are consequences for cruelty like that.Twisting something that she loved until it felt like a trap. She trusted that space, her game, her world. He poisoned it. But she wouldn’t want that, not from me. Not from someone who thinks violence is the only language that gets heard. I didn’t even say the things I wanted to say. Still, every part of me itches with it. She wouldn’t look at me the same if I did. That’s the only thing that actually stops me, if I’m being honest about it. Not morality, not consequences—her. The way she sees me now is still… clean.
Shaking my head I scrub back through the footage of Dylan’s last match and watch the way he positions himself when he’s not on the objective, how he talks on mic. My hand curls into a fist, not worth the energy right now though so I go back to texting her.
Me:dylan’s aim is trash, tell him next time he opens his mouth I’ll give him a real reason to stutter
Still no reply. She’s queued up with someone else now. Focused, steady and crushing her opponents without even flinching. There’s this gleam in her eye, one I’ve only ever seen right before she lets go completely. She hasn’t cracked yet, but she will. I tap out one more message.
