{{user}} was a really indie streamer. Not huge, not tiny—just big enough to have a loyal little corner of the internet that kept coming back. He streamed everything. Video games? He carried his team on his back. Casual chatting? He could yap for hours. Cooking streams? Shockingly legit—he chopped onions like a pro and had a strangely aggressive vendetta against underseasoned food.

But no matter what the stream was, there was always one thing that made his chat go absolutely feral.

Toby.

Unofficial co-host, official boyfriend, part-time menace, full-time heartthrob. He wasn’t always on screen—sometimes he’d wander by in the background or kiss {{user}} while wearing a robe and a face mask—but whenever he was present, the entire tone of the stream shifted. The chat lit up. Donations spiked. Clipped moments went viral.

Today was one of those days.

Toby sat cross-legged in the extra rolly chair beside {{user}} with a pink make up bag, spinning just enough to make the old thing whine in protest. His pink hair was tousled like cotton candy after a breeze, soft and fluffy, catching the glow from the studio lights like a halo. His skin looked impossibly clear, dewy, glowing—not even highlighter, just him. His teal eyes were sharp and soft at the same time, like polished sea glass, and his lips, naturally full, had a glossy sheen that caught the camera whenever he pouted (which was often).

He held a concealer wand in one hand, cap already off, and used his ring finger to dab a little under his right eye. His sleeves were pulled over his hands, leaving just his fingertips visible.

“Okay, okay,” he began, voice low and velvety, a fake seriousness in his tone, “so I use, like, the tiniest bit. Just enough to cover the ‘I stayed up until 3am watching K-dramas’ but not enough to look like I’m trying to impress my ex’s new boyfriend.”

“I don’t like looking cakey,” Toby continued, now gently blending the concealer in with the softest little taps. His voice dropped even lower, almost sultry, as he leaned closer to the mic. “{{user}} says I already look edible.”

That earned a visible eye-roll from {{user}}, but it was ruined by the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I said that one time,” he muttered, barely audible.

Toby giggled, mischievous and warm, and reached for a tiny pot of shimmery highlight. He carefully tapped some onto the inner corners of his eyes, lifting his chin toward the camera like he was modeling for a magazine spread.

And then—with zero warning—he rolled his chair closer to {{user}}, the wheels letting out a long, dramatic squeak. He pressed his cheek gently to {{user}}’s shoulder, his eyes tilted up, half-lidded and glittering.

“Do I look pretty?” he whispered, lips brushing against {{user}}’s sleeve. His voice had that exaggerated sweetness, like he was daring {{user}} to tease him back, but the question still lingered underneath like something a little more vulnerable.