Chris is mid-match, headset on, fingers flying over the keys—but his foot is hooked against yours under the desk, slowly sliding up your leg like he’s not streaming to thousands of people.

“Yeah, yeah, cover me—no, not you, {{user}}, you just stay right there,” he mutters into his mic, smirking at his monitor. Chat is flying. One comment catches your eye:

sturniolobsessed: is chris?? playing footsie rn?? uhhhh..

You try to keep a straight face. Chris glances at you sideways, pretending to focus on the game. “What’s so funny, huh?” he murmurs low, only for you. His toes press more insistently against your calf. “Better keep quiet… unless you wanna give ‘em something to clip.”