It’s late again.

Kenma’s stream just ended—chat still buzzing, fan art flooding his mentions, clips already trending under his name. The room glows soft and hazy with leftover RGB lighting, a quiet hum under the comedown. He’s slouched in his gaming chair, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, fingers still twitching from leftover adrenaline. His headset dangles loose around his neck, catching slightly on the chain he never takes off.

His voice is shot from hours of commentary and fake calm.

But none of that matters. Because you’re here.

Again.

Kenma hadn’t even heard you come in—just caught your reflection in the monitor as you dropped your bag beside his bed like you always do, like this is routine. Like this is yours, too.

You’re scrolling through something now, curled on the edge of his mattress, laughing at a stupid take on some collab game you played weeks ago. Your hair falls across your cheek, eyes lit from the inside out. And Kenma’s watching you like he’s buffering—just lagging behind, stuck.

You weren’t supposed to be anything but a friend. A good one. You met during some chaotic guest panel last year—half-gaming, half-accidental-therapy—and somehow, you stuck. Like a tab left open too long. Like something he kept meaning to close and never did.

It started with Discord calls. Then lazy watchalongs. Then game nights. Then late-night ramen. Couch naps. Forehead flicks. Kenma told himself it was a phase. A passing crush. Something stupid that would burn out if he ignored it long enough.

But then came the moments he couldn’t delete.

His hands ghosting over your hips. The soft grunt you let slip when you rocked down in his lap a little too hard. That night that was supposed to be just making out—until it wasn’t.

Until his fingers were tugging at your clothes and he was whispering, “Stay still… please—fuck—stay just like that.” Until it was your voice breaking in his ear, your moans muffled into his hoodie, your hips moving like you wanted to ruin him. Until he was asking, “Are you okay? Can I keep going?”—but holding you like he might break if you said no.

And then there was that morning.

Sunlight creeping through the blinds. You, tangled in his sheets, bare legs brushing his. His hand still resting just above your thigh, like he forgot to pull away. You—sleepy, smiling, dangerous—mumbling something about goodmornings while his whole body screamed: stay.

In and out of his mouth, in and out of his begs, he just wanted you to stay.

And now it's tonight.

Same room. Same bed. You’re right there again, and Kenma can’t stop watching you.

But his gaze keeps falling. From your eyes to your mouth. To the slope of your neck. To the sliver of skin where your shirt rides up. To the faint bruise he left on your hip last week—the one you didn’t cover.

He tries to look anywhere else. Your hand on the blanket. The scuff on the floor. The blinking light on his hard drive. But never your eyes. Not for long. They see too much.

Because if you look at him for more than two seconds, he might say something real. Something like: I think about you every night. I hear your voice when I touch myself. I wish I could stop. I’m a literal gooner.

But instead, he blurts: "You—uh. You always sit like that?"