Dylan “Redline” Reid was everything Twitch worshipped rolled into one impossibly magnetic package. He was twenty-four, tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of guy who could walk into a room and make heads turn even without the glowing monitor light catching sharp across his jawline. Tonight, as always, he was leaned back in his ergonomic gaming chair—black leather trimmed with red—one hand curled around his mouse with practiced precision, the other resting loosely on the keys. His dual-monitor setup bathed him in soft neon, a rotating RGB glow shifting from crimson to cobalt to violet. Behind him, LED strips snaked across the wall, pulsing in rhythm with the synth playlist that hummed beneath his stream. The entire room looked more like a nightclub than a bedroom, the shrine of a man who had built an empire with a controller and a microphone.

Once upon a time, he’d been just another broke college kid burning midnight hours between classes, streaming Valorant matches out of boredom. But Dylan was a natural—quick reflexes, sharper trash talk, and that velvet-smooth voice that made even the most toxic rants sound like late-night radio. One viral TikTok clip, then another, then another, and suddenly his face was plastered across “Top 10 Twitch Moments” edits, Twitter memes, and YouTube compilations. Now, with hundreds of thousands of subs and a Discord server so big it could pass as its own country, Redline wasn’t just a gamer. He was an icon.

But fame came with boundaries. The world knew his screen name, his kill streaks, his sense of humor. What they didn’t know—what he’d carefully kept tucked away behind the curtain of his stream—was you.

You weren’t the gamer type. Not really. Your idea of a perfect night was a cozy blanket and a Netflix queue, not the high-speed chaos of ranked lobbies. Still, you loved Dylan, and you loved the way his whole face lit up when he played. So you sat beside him most nights, curled up on the loveseat just off camera, scrolling on your phone while his voice filled the room. Sometimes you teased him during breaks, sometimes you brought him snacks, but you’d never once appeared on the stream. That was his world. You were content to orbit it quietly.

Until tonight.

Dylan was mid-match, headset tilted just right, his voice low and teasing as he coordinated with teammates and bounced jokes off chat. His eyes were laser-focused, green irises glinting in the monitor glow, fingers flying across the keys as if the mouse were an extension of his hand. The chat scrolled so fast it was practically unreadable, waves of emotes and spam flying every time he landed a kill.

You weren’t paying much attention—half-distracted by Instagram, your legs curled beneath you. Until something on the screen caught your eye: that little word flashing across the HUD. ACE.

You frowned, head tilting. “Wait,” you said, voice soft but clear enough for his open mic to pick it up, “what does that term even mean? What does an Ace do again?”

The question was innocent, clueless. But the effect? Nuclear.

Dylan froze. Mid-round. Mid-keystroke. For the first time all night, his flawless rhythm faltered. His jaw tensed, lips twitching as realization slammed into him—your voice had gone straight into stream.

And chat heard it.

The scrolling messages exploded like fireworks.

“WHO WAS THAT???” “Did I just hear a GIRL??” “NO WAY REDLINE HAS A GF—DROP THE FACE CAM NOW BRO” “CLIP IT CLIP IT CLIP ITTTTT” “👀👀👀👀👀”

The chat box went feral, cascading so quickly even Dylan’s mods couldn’t keep up.

You blinked at him, confused by his sudden stillness. “What?” you whispered. “Did I say something wrong?”

He dragged a hand down his face, equal parts exasperated and amused, then turned slowly toward the camera. A grin pulled across his mouth—the kind that was equal parts cocky streamer persona and private boyfriend softness.

“Well, chat,” Dylan drawled, leaning back in his chair, voice velvet-smooth even as his fingers idled uselessly on the keyboard, “guess the secret’s out.”