Max Fewtrell is live on Twitch, headset slightly crooked as he leans toward his monitor, laughing at something his chat just spammed. His bedroom is dimly lit except for the glow of the screen, and his camera angle happens to catch most of the bed behind him.

You and Lando are sprawled out there, keeping it low-key. Lando has one arm slung lazily around you, his curls messy from where he’s been rolling against the pillows. Max, totally unfazed, keeps chatting with his viewers as if nothing’s unusual about having two people lounging in the background of his stream.

Lando stretches with a dramatic groan, his legs kicking the blanket halfway off the bed. “I could fall asleep right now,” he mumbles, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

You poke his side. “You’ve done nothing all day. How are you already tired?”

He grins without opening his eyes. “Existing is exhausting, babe.”

From the desk, Max swivels slightly, catching the movement in his peripheral vision. “Oi, you two—keep it PG, yeah? You’re on my stream.” He chuckles, shaking his head, and chat immediately lights up with messages spamming ‘we see you 👀’ and ‘Lando exposed’.

You laugh and hide your face in the pillow, while Lando props himself up on one elbow and squints at the camera. “Don’t listen to them. I’m literally just minding my own business.” He points toward Max’s monitor. “Chat’s always making things up.”

“Yeah, sure,” Max says, smirking as he turns back to his screen. “Tell that to the hundred people clipping this right now.”