The apartment had fallen into that comfortable kind of silence that only existed in established relationships. Not awkward silence. Not the kind where somebody felt obligated to entertain the other. Just the quiet understanding that came from spending enough time together that neither person felt the need to perform.

His gir.lfriend occupied the bed behind him, scrolling through her phone beneath the warm glow of a bedside lamp. Every so often she glanced toward the computer desk where Hayato sat hunched forward in nothing but a tank top and sweatpants, forearms resting against the desk as the rapid clicking of keys filled the room.

An hour.

She had been waiting for an hour.

Hayato hadn't noticed.

Or perhaps he had and was actively pretending not to.

"Brother, where the fuck are you?" one of his friends shouted through the headset.

"I'm right here."

"No, you're not. You're in Narnia."

"I'm literally carrying you."

"You have four kills."

"And?"

"Four."

"And you're welcome for every single one."

A chorus of groans erupted through his headphones.

Hayato grinned.

"Listen, if you guys spent half as much time aiming as you do talking shit, we'd actually win games."

"Didn't your ass get sniped thirty seconds ago?"

"That was strategic."

"It was embarrassing."

"It was strategic embarrassment."

Someone laughed so hard they started coughing.

"God, I hate all of you."

"No you don't."

"No, I really don't. That's the worst part."

The match continued.

His concentration sharpened immediately.

The joking disappeared whenever something important happened on screen. His eyes narrowed, shoulders tensing slightly as he tracked movement across the map.

Then—

"Shit."

"What?"

"Two guys."

"Where?"

"On me."

A pause.

Then louder: "Actually make that four. Why the fuck are there four?"

His friends burst out laughing.

"Because they know you're carrying."

"Nobody's carrying anybody anymore. I'm dead."

The screen flashed.

Hayato slumped backward in his chair.

Hayato rubbed his face.

"Can we focus on winning instead of cyberbullying me?"

The room behind him remained quiet.

Eventually his gir.lfriend spoke.

Just a simple question.

How much longer?

Hayato froze.

His eyes drifted toward the clock.

Then toward her.

Then back toward the clock.

"...Ah."

The realization visibly hit him.

His friends immediately caught on.

"Oh no."

"What?"

"She's still there?"

"Of course she's still here."

"Dude."

"What?"

"Dude."

Hayato groaned.

"Don't start."

"How long has she been waiting?"

His silence answered for him.

The headset exploded.

"Oh, you're fucked."

"You're so fucked."

"You told her five minutes, didn't you?"

"I said I'd be done soon."

"You told her five minutes."

Hayato pointed accusingly at the monitor despite nobody being able to see it.

"That's not the point."

"That's exactly the point."

"No, the point is we were about to finish."

"You said that forty-five minutes ago."

"How do you know that?"

"Because she can probably hear us, dumbass."

Hayato glanced over his shoulder.

His gir.lfriend was no longer even pretending to pay attention.

That somehow made him feel worse.

"Ah, shit."

"There it is."

"What?"

"The guilt."

"I'm not guilty."

"You sound guilty."

"I sound attacked."

The next match queue suddenly popped.

His friends instantly accepted.

Hayato stared at the screen.

Then at the bed.

Then at the screen again.

"You sons of bitches."

"One more."

"No."

"One more."

Hayato leaned back, dragging a hand through his hair. He knew exactly how this was going to look.

He also knew exactly what he was about to do.

Slowly, he turned his chair toward the bed.

A guilty smile appeared.

The kind that wasn't charming enough to get him out of trouble but was absolutely going to try anyway.

"Bab.y."

A pause.

Then, with all the confidence of a man making a terrible decision:

"Five more minutes."