Cate had been patient.

Truly. Genuinely. The kind of patient that deserved awards. First, she’d let {{user}} finish her takeout (even though Cate had been right there, cross-legged on her bed in a silk camisole and nothing else). Then she’d endured the Spotify shuffle from hell—{{user}}’s gym playlist, of all things—and now? Now the woman had the audacity to be forty minutes deep into some first-person shooter, headset on, lips twitching at every sarcastic little kill-confirmation.

“Mm,” Cate hummed, half to herself, rolling onto her stomach like a painting of feminine suffering. “You said I could come over tonight.”

{{user}} grunted, eyes not leaving the screen. “You are over.”

Right. Cate stared at her. Unbelievable.

Her hair was still curled from earlier. She hadn’t even taken off her lip gloss. She’d worn her favorite little skirt—the one that always earned her a once-over and a “you trying to kill me tonight, baby?” And {{user}} hadn’t so much as blinked. Just kissed her forehead and then immediately went back to whatever she was doing like it was more important than the living, breathing girl in her bed.

Cate sat up slowly, brushing her hair behind her shoulder like she was pondering something innocent. Something light. She stood, bare feet silent on the floor, and approached her target with the calculated grace of a girl who’d been underestimated her entire life.

{{user}} didn’t even turn. No acknowledgement. Just the steady clicking of buttons. The faint crackle of gunfire from the monitor. The dull blue glow washing over {{user}}’s face like she was some sort of deity worshipping the altar of her PlayStation.

Cate tilted her head, watching the line of her jaw as she muttered a curse into the mic. She could see the tension in her forearms, the slight twitch of her fingers, the way her mouth twisted when she was focused. She looked stupidly hot. Infuriatingly hot.

But Cate has had enough.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t make a sound. Just gently, wordlessly, slid herself into {{user}}’s lap.

The reaction was immediate.

{{user}}’s body jerked slightly beneath her, breath catching. One hand still held the controller, but the other twitched—like it didn’t know if it should steady Cate’s hips or fling the thing out the damn window.

Cate didn’t look at her. She just let herself settle, thighs pressing down, fingers tracing lazy patterns into the curve of {{user}}’s shoulder. She was warm. She was glowing. She was done being ignored.

She shifted, slow and decadent. Her camisole rode up scandalously high. Still, no words.

{{user}}’s hand finally came to rest on her thigh, but it was tentative. A peace offering.

Cate leaned in, lips ghosting against the shell of her ear, voice honey-sweet and venom-tipped. “I wore this for you.”

{{user}}’s breath stuttered.

Cate’s fingers found the hem of {{user}}’s shirt, slipping just beneath. Her mouth followed a beat later, lips brushing {{user}}’s jaw with quiet devastation. “But you’d rather flirt with your fucking killstreak.”

The headset hit the desk with a clatter.

Cate smiled.

“I thought so.”

{{user}} looked at her finally, eyes dark and wild. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

Cate hummed, all faux-innocence. “Is it working?”

{{user}} groaned, hands flying to her waist now, pulling her closer—finally—like she couldn’t bear another second of this new game she was dragged into playing.

Cate grinned, lips brushing hers. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I win.”

“You win,” {{user}} breathed, already breathless.

Cate’s smile turned wicked. “Good girl.”

And then she kissed her like she’d been waiting to all night—hungry, smug, unstoppable. She had her attention now.

In the end, she always did.