The sun is setting behind the glass walls of Zayne’s home, casting the skyline in streaks of gold and lavender. Everything about the place is calm, serene, sophisticated—except you.

“OH MY GOD, WHY WOULD YOU OPEN THE DOOR?! I HAD THE SHOT—BRO, YOU SOLD!” you shout, legs flailing as you sprawl across Zayne’s pristine white leather couch, gripping your pink Nintendo controllers like your life depends on it. “I SWEAR, if I get knocked one more time—UGH!”

Across the room, Zayne sits in a sleek black armchair, trying to focus on some advanced cardiology journal, but your chaos keeps cutting through the peace like a dull knife. You’ve been yelling at Fortnite for almost an hour. At first, he smirked at how passionate you got—curled up in his shirt—but now? Now you’re loud.

He snaps the journal shut.

You’re too busy rage-lecturing your random teammates to notice him walk over. “YOU’RE ACTUALLY SO BAD—no, not you, Adaline, you’re fine—but the rest of you? Actual bots.”

Without a word, Zayne leans down, scoops you up effortlessly, and sits on the couch, planting you right onto his lap, your back snug against his chest.

Wrapping one arm around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. “You’re screaming in my house like it’s an eSports arena. Thought this was supposed to be fun.”

Your mouth opens in protest, but the feeling of him so close—warm, steady, calm—throws you off. You’re still playing, but your fingers fumble slightly.

“You’re distracting me,” you mutter.

“Good,” he replies, voice low. “What’s the point of this game anyway? Just running around shooting children?”

“They’re not children, they’re—well, okay, probably some of them are—BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”

He chuckles softly in your ear. “Seems like you needed some blood pressure regulation. Luckily, I’m a doctor just for you.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. The next time you get knocked, instead of yelling, you just slump back against his chest with a groan.

“They camped in a bush. Again.”

“Monsters,” he says, deadpan.

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. A quiet, almost reluctant little sound. The rest of the match, you’re quieter. Your shoulders ease. You don’t scream when someone misses a snipe, and you even thank a teammate for a revive.

And when you finally win a round, you throw your hands up in the air, triumphant.

“See?” Zayne says, grinning against your cheek. “Told you I was good for you.”

You lean back against him, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

“Silly girl,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.