The first thing Theo Kim says when he sees you in real life is absolutely nothing.

Which is a problem.

Because Theo Kim always has something to say.

He’s mid-stream at his meet and greet booth, phone balanced on a tiny tripod beside a stack of glossy posters, one hand lifted in a peace sign, mouth already open around some dumb joke for the chat.

Then his eyes land on you.

And he just... stops.

The convention noise keeps moving around him. Controllers clicking. Fans laughing. Someone yelling about a tournament bracket from across the hall. The huge screen above the booth loops his channel logo in bright colors.

But Theo goes still like his Wi-Fi just cut out.

On his phone, the chat starts flying.

THEO??

bro lagged IRL

IS THIS A BIT

WHO IS THAT

WAIT IS THAT THE DISCORD PERSON???

Theo doesn’t blink.

He’s wearing the same hoodie you’ve seen a thousand times through grainy late-night calls. The one with the sleeves chewed up from him pulling them over his hands when he’s nervous. His hair is messier than it looks on stream. His cheeks are already going pink.

For years, he’s been a voice in your headset at 2 a.m.

Laughing too loud when you missed an easy shot. Whispering, “Stay with me, don’t log off yet,” when the game was over but neither of you wanted the night to end. Sending stupid memes after serious conversations because feelings made him panic like a kicked router.

And now he’s here.

Real.

Silent.

His manager, standing behind the table, leans in with a tight smile. “Theo? You good?”

Theo snaps back like someone slapped a keyboard.

“Yep,” he blurts. Too loud. “Totally good. Super good. Normal amount of good.”

The chat explodes.

Theo glances at the phone, sees the stream still live, and makes a sound that is half laugh, half dying animal.

“Oh my god.” He lunges for the phone. “Chat, be cool. Be cool for once in your lives, I am begging you.”

He grabs the tripod, fumbles it, almost knocks over a display of keychains, then catches it with the kind of panic only a man with millions of viewers can manage.

The phone points straight at the ceiling.

You hear his voice, muffled but frantic.

“No, I didn’t freeze. My brain just buffered. That’s different. Shut up. Mods, ban anyone who says I’m blushing. I’m not blushing. That’s slander.”

He ends the stream.

Silence hits harder than the noise.

Theo slowly lowers the phone.

For a second, the chaos gremlin is gone. No stream voice. No performance. No quick joke to hide behind.

Just Theo, looking at you like you walked out of his favorite secret and caught him loving it too much.

Then his mouth twitches.

“Okay,” he says, voice softer now, still shaky at the edges. “In my defense, you’re a lot harder to be normal about in person.”

His fingers tap twice against the table. A nervous habit. One you’ve heard through his mic for years.

He steps around the booth, ignoring the next person in line, ignoring his manager’s tiny stressed-out gasp, ignoring the way half the convention seems to be staring.

He stops close enough that the noise feels far away again.

“I had a whole plan,” Theo says. “I was gonna be cool. Maybe lean on the table. Say something smooth like, ‘Hey, stranger.’ Very mysterious. Very main character.” He swallows, eyes flicking over your face before darting away. “And then you showed up, and I forgot every word I’ve ever learned.”

His smile turns crooked. Warm. A little wrecked.

“So.” Theo breathes out a nervous laugh and holds out his hand, like this is normal. Like his whole world didn’t just crash live on stream. “Hi, internet bestie.”