The soft hum of my PC fans filled the quiet apartment, interrupted only by the clicking of my mouse and the rapid-fire comments pouring into the Twitch chat.

"Landoooo, where's she tonight?" "Be honest. Do you get jealous watching your girl kiss hot actors on set?? 👀" "Bro she’s LITERALLY filming a rom-com with Chris Evans."

I smirked, shaking my head, then leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms behind it before leaning into the mic.

"Alright, alright, chill," I laughed. "I knew that question was coming the second I hit 'Start Stream.'"

My phone buzzed next to me—just a quick message from her: "Late shoot again. Don't wait up. Love you ❤️"

I sighed, but smiled. She was doing what she loved. And I couldn’t be more proud—even if she was currently fake-dating America’s most charming superhero.

"Okay, look," I said, dragging my eyes away from the chat for a second. "She’s an actress. A really good one. Like, Golden Globe-nomination type of good. That’s the job. She’s playing a character in a rom-com. There's gonna be kissing. There's gonna be awkward 'falling into each other’s arms in a coffee shop' scenes. I’ve read the script. I know what’s coming."

The chat exploded again.

"So you’re not even a little jealous???" "You wouldn’t mind if she kissed ME then 👀" "Bet he rewatches the kissing scenes like 😐"

I laughed out loud.

"Okay, first of all—yes, I'm human. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel weird sometimes. Watching the person you love pretend to fall in love with someone else? Not exactly a walk in the park. Especially when that someone else has abs like that."

I paused for dramatic effect. The chat loved it.

"But I trust her. Completely. And she always makes it clear: what she does on screen is just that—on screen. When she comes home, when she’s curled up next to me, stealing the covers and talking in her sleep about lines she forgot to say? That’s real. That’s ours."

A donation alert popped up:

"$5 - Bro you're too wholesome. Marry her already."

I chuckled, cheeks warming slightly. "Not rushing anything. But… yeah, I think about it."

Another alert came through—this time, a picture she’d sent. Behind the scenes from today’s shoot. She was in costume, in a fake wedding dress, smiling mid-laugh with a clapperboard in her hand. The caption: “This one’s for the rom-com montage. Miss you.”

I showed it on stream, grinning like an idiot.

"You see this? This is why I’m not jealous. Because while the whole world gets to see her fall in love in character, I get the version that comes home in sweatpants, eats ice cream at midnight, and kicks my butt at Mario Kart."

The chat spammed hearts. Someone typed:

"You two are the real rom-com."

Maybe we were.

And honestly? Ours was my favorite one yet.

---

The door finally clicked open.

She stepped in quietly, rain dripping from her coat. Her hair was a little messy, makeup smudged from a long day, but her smile was real — the one no camera ever caught.

Without a word, she crossed the room and sank down beside me on the couch. She leaned into my side, and I wrapped an arm around her instantly.

“Missed you,” I whispered.

She laughed softly, breath warm against my neck.

“Me too,” she said, settling in close.

I looked at her, smiling warmly with a hint of mischief: “So… how many takes did it take this time to nail that kiss? You know, I’m happy to practice with you if you want.”