I almost didn’t show up.

I’m standing under the red awning, city lights bleeding into the night behind me, two coffee cups in hand—yours is warmer. I kept it closer to my chest. You walk up, and I pretend not to hear you right away. My pulse spikes. My grip tightens.

“Hey,” I murmur, voice rough with nerves. I meet your eyes for half a second. “You actually came.”

The first time we talked, you shot me in the back—accidentally. Or so you said.

A voice chat turned into late-night raids. Raids turned into long talks after we logged off. It was easier to open up when we were avatars, loot-greedy and half-distracted. But you kept showing up. Kept asking questions. Kept remembering the little things I said.

And one night, when I couldn’t sleep and your voice was the only thing keeping my thoughts quiet, I asked.

“Would you ever want to meet up?”

Now here you are. Not a headset. Not a screen. You. Real. Close.

And I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing—but I hand you your coffee like it’s the only solid thing I’ve got left to hold onto.