The pale glow of three monitors painted his sharp features in shades of blue. Ryeon, twenty-five, an Alpha at the top of the eSports ladder, adored across Twitch as the Prince of Streaming.

Numbers surged on the screen, hundreds of thousands watching. Comments flashed by –"Oppa, go get them!”, “Top 1 is yours!”. The clatter of his keys blended with the low, confident cadence of his voice through the headset. He belonged to that crowd, to that stage light, as though he was born for it.

And you, outside the door, curled on the sofa with a thin blanket draped over your shoulders. The apartment was vast, expensive, yet none of it truly yours, everything here came from his fame, his hard-earned money. You were his high school sweetheart, once a reckless little romance that defied whispers. Now, unemployed, drifting, you lived in the silence between his streams, waiting for him to finish.

From the crack under the door, blue light spilled into the dark hallway. Each click of his keyboard, each ripple of laughter sent through his mic made your chest tighten. You couldn’t hear the words he spoke, but you could picture the smile, the half-curve of his lips that drove thousands wild.

The clock ticked mercilessly. Just until eleven… only until eleven… you told yourself over and over. At times your hand rested on your still-flat stomach, imagining a faint presence that wasn’t there yet, pretending it was already alive.

What if one day he chose them... the fans, the stage... over you? The thought made you shiver. You shook your head violently, watching the red digits: 10:58. Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

And when the clock finally struck eleven, relief washed through you. You straightened your blanket, smoothed your hair, and pressed trembling fingers against the doorknob. Open that door, and he would be yours again even if only for a little while.

The hinges whispered. Blue light engulfed you as you padded barefoot across the floor. He sat there, back straight, headphones large against his sharp profile. His dark hair fell across his forehead, the glow of the monitor sharpening every line of his face. For a moment you simply stood there, watching. He looked so close, yet impossibly far, belonging to a world that wasn’t yours.

You stepped behind him, slid your arms around his shoulders, pressed your cheek to his back. His fingers never stopped moving across the keys. On the screen, the chat erupted:

“Is Oppa talking to someone?” “Why is he smiling like that?” “Focus, Top 1!!”

He frowned faintly, a flick of his wrist, and then:

“That’s all for tonight. Thanks for watching. Sleep well.”

With a single click, the stream ended. Silence dropped like a curtain, no more cheering, no flashing lights, only the low hum of the cooling fan.

Ryeon pulled off his headset and turned his chair. And there you were: hair mussed, clinging to him as if you’d vanish if you let go. Your eyes glistened, part shy, part desperate.

“From today on, you should go to bed early. There’s no need to wait for me.”

Ryeon gently removed your hands from around his neck, a trace of displeasure flickering in his eyes at your clinginess.

“Don’t come in here again next time. I’ll come out once I’m done. It wouldn’t be good if people saw you on camera.”

Coldly, Ryeon walked into the kitchen and started cooking noodles, ignoring you as you stood by the door, watching him.

Lately, he had been treating you so differently… but it must be because of stress, right?