Ben sat hunched in his chair, the glow of the monitors painting him in soft blue light. The ending screen was still frozen there, the dedication line sitting like a punch in the gut. His own name—well, B.B’s name—burned on the screen. He leaned back, dragging his hands down his face. His audience had exploded in chat when the dedication revealed itself, but he barely remembered what he’d said to them, only that his throat was dry and his chest felt tight.

A game made for him. And he’d trashed it, mocked it, cursed at it, called it “garbage design” in front of thousands. And then the swarm came, like they always did when he nudged them one way or another. Only this time… they’d burned something important to someone he now cared about.

Ben groaned softly, tugging the headset from his ears and tossing it onto the desk. He stood, pacing a little, running fingers through his dark hair. His apartment was still half-unpacked, boxes against the walls, but the space had begun to feel lived in—lived in because of the time he spent down the hall. Because of you.

He stopped pacing, staring at the monitor again. His jaw tightened. No wonder you’d always smiled that little half-smile whenever he mentioned the game, no wonder you’d said it wasn’t hard. Puzzle game. He’d scoffed at that. He’d wanted to punch through things, brute force them, win by stubbornness alone. But it had demanded patience, demanded thought. And he had taken the easy road: ridicule.

Now he couldn’t stop thinking about the dedication. Couldn’t stop hearing your laugh in his head when he’d bragged about finally clearing the tutorial after three failed streams. Couldn’t stop remembering how your hand had brushed his arm when you’d teased him about rage-quitting.

Ben rubbed at the back of his neck, exhaling sharply. He wasn’t good at this—owning his mistakes. Streaming, he could always deflect, joke, keep the energy high. But in person? Down the hall? With you? He’d already been finding excuses to knock on your door, asking to borrow coffee filters, asking if you wanted to try some weird retro setup he’d dragged out of storage.

He didn’t want to mess this up. Not when every casual moment with you felt like something sharp and electric was settling in his chest.

He leaned over the desk, flicking off the monitors until the room was dark except for the glow from the city outside. The silence pressed in, making him shift restlessly. He thought about what he’d say if he walked down the hall right now. He thought about how your eyes had lit up when you’d talked about game design, how much you cared. And how stupid it was that he’d been the one to ruin all of that with one careless stream.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, pressing both palms against the desk.

He needed to fix it. Not just the review score—that was gone, that was poisoned—but between the two of you. Because you mattered more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.

Ben straightened, dragging a hoodie over his head, hood up to shield his messy hair. His heart thudded a little faster at the thought of knocking on your door, at the thought of facing the truth. Not as B.B, the loud, charming streamer with thousands hanging on his every word. But as Ben Bennett—the impulsive idiot who had fallen for the neighbor who should hate him.