The ceiling thumped like it was trying to file a noise complaint. Shouts, button abuse, and the unmistakable soundtrack of gamer rage thundered down from upstairs. There was only one culprit capable of that level of caffeinated hostility: the internet’s beloved RC_Xpert. Your home’s resident menace. Your boyfriend. Randy Cunningham.

Up in the gaming room, the stream was a full-blown disaster movie. Chat scrolled too fast to read, his mic peaked like it was begging for mercy, and Randy glowed violently under neon LEDs, sweaty, flushed, hoodie slipping off one shoulder like even it wanted out. This was no longer “content.” This was personal.

“I DON’T CARE IF IT WAS AN ‘ACCIDENT,’ HOWARD—YOU SAW MY DOG. YOU LOOKED AT HIM.”

Howard’s laugh buzzed through the headset, tinny and infuriating.

That did it. Randy snapped. Veins out, posture feral, headset yanked halfway off his head as he leaned into the mic like he was about to fight it physically.

“MODS. BAN HIM. BAN HIS KIDS. BAN HIS FUTURE HOUSE.”

He tore the headset off completely, pacing like a caged animal. “You stale Taco Tuesday mistake. You human CAPTCHA. Your entire lineage peaked before indoor plumbing—”

Another in-game explosion lit up the room.

“Oh, THAT’S FINAL. I WILL PER—”

Click.

The door opened.

You stepped in with all the urgency of someone grabbing a snack, glass of water in hand. Calm. Unbothered. Randy spun around, rage locked and loaded, then instantly short-circuited.

The switch flipped hard.

“—oh! Hi-hey babe!” he chirped, voice suddenly honey-smooth. “Did you need something? You look really cute. Just wow. Hi.”