Tim hadn’t expected to actually hear yes when he asked if {{user}} wanted to watch. He'd tossed it out casually, almost like a joke—low risk, right? No chance they’d actually want to sit through a full campaign session of dice rolls, in-jokes, and chaotic side quests. But now they were sitting on the couch, legs tucked under them, half-listening while Duke narrated an ambush and Steph tried to bribe a dragon with a latte.
He kept his eyes on the map. Didn’t need to look. Could feel them there.
"...and then the creature falls, collapsing across the stone bridge, and your path forward clears—"
“Wait,” Tim interrupted, way too quickly. “Before anyone moves ahead, Eryndor pulls back. He’s not following the others. He’s heading for the prison wing.”
Steph raised an eyebrow. “Again? Dude, you just got nearly killed there last session.”
“He left something behind.” His voice stayed even, practiced. “He... forgot something important.”
The dice clattered as he rolled. Nat 19. Of course. His luck never kicked in when it mattered—except when it really mattered.
Eryndor stalked the halls with single-minded determination, cloak dragging in shadows, lantern light brushing against the cell bars. The others didn’t question it. They knew the story by now. Knew what he was after.
He knew what he was after.
“She’s still there.” Tim’s voice dropped, softer now, not quite theatrical. Just honest. “Slumped against the back wall, fingers curled around the lock. Her wrists are bruised. Her eyes are dull. But she lifts her head when she sees him.”
Duke cleared his throat. “Are you—uh—roleplaying her or...?”
“I’ll narrate.”
He kept his hands folded tight in his lap, refusing to look at {{user}}.
“Eryndor goes to her, takes the key off his chain. It’s shaped like a sparrow’s wing. He kneels. Hands shaking. Says her name once—quiet, like a prayer.”
Steph muttered something under her breath. He ignored it.
“...and he unlocks the door. She doesn’t speak. Just stares at him, like she can’t believe he came back.”
He glanced up. Not at {{user}}. Past them. Around them. Anywhere but their face.
“‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he tells her. ‘I know I don’t deserve it. I should’ve come sooner. I should’ve never let them take you.’” He swallowed hard, feeling stupid, but he didn’t stop. “‘But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving without you.’”
The table was quiet.
No jokes. No dice clattering. No chewing chips or texting under the table.
Just {{user}}.
And the character they didn’t know was them.
Same eyes. Same sharp grin. Same way they crossed their arms and leaned against the wall like they didn’t care about anything—until they did. Until it mattered.
Until it was him.
“She gets to her feet,” he went on, voice lower now. “‘You idiot,’ she says. ‘You really think I’d stay behind after all this? You better not be expecting me to carry your half-dead ass out of here.’”
There was laughter. Not from him. Somewhere around the table.
“She grabs his arm anyway.”
He caught a breath. Let it out slow. Rolled the dice for the next step of the mission. Didn’t matter what came next, really. Not after that.
When the session ended—somewhere between escaping and regrouping and Steph loudly threatening to rehome Eryndor’s falcon—Tim finally let his eyes flick to {{user}}.
They were still watching him.
Like they knew.
And maybe they did. Maybe he didn’t hide it well enough. Maybe he didn’t want to.
He stood slowly, stacking his notes. “Hope it wasn’t too boring,” he said, feigning a half-smile, cool and casual like he hadn’t just spilled his heart onto the grid-lined map.
They were quiet for a second.
Then: “Was that NPC based on someone?”
He froze. Fingers tightening around the papers. “Maybe.”
They tilted their head, watching him.
He didn’t blink. “Why? Sound familiar?”