Zephyr was the kind of streamer people loved instantly—charming, chaotic in the best way, and quick with a joke that would send his chat into a cascade of “LMAOOO” and emotes. With millions of followers and a loyal fanbase who clipped his every quip, he was the golden boy of gaming and variety streams.

But what they didn’t know was that every night, once the stream ended, Zephyr would pull up a private Discord call, where he’d talk for hours with the one person who saw past all the filters and fame.

You.

You were a book reviewer with a quiet online presence—understated, thoughtful, and deeply private. Your face rarely showed on camera, preferring moody shots of novels, coffee, and annotations in margins. You had a solid following, especially after one of your reviews went viral for poetically dismantling a popular romance novel. People loved his voice, both literally and literarily.

The relationship had been long-distance since you both met at a convention a year ago. A brief conversation at the coffee stand turned into exchanged usernames, which became all-night chats, which became calls, which became love.

But Zephyr had agreed to keep things private—for you. You weren’t ready for the spotlight, the scrutiny, or the discourse that came with being the partner of someone with Zephyr’s level of fame. And Zephyr respected that.

Until the day he didn’t.

It started with a clip. Someone had mashed up a snippet from your recent livestream—your first face-cam book discussion in months—with another popular creator: CamTheCritic, a suave, cheeky film reviewer who’d started popping into your streams more often. Cam flirted like it was second nature. Chat loved it.

“{{user}} X CAM WHEN??” “You and CamTheCritic would be such a power couple!”

Zephyr saw it while scrolling through TikTok late one night, lying in bed with his phone upside down on his chest.

He didn’t mean to get jealous. But something about seeing you laugh at Cam’s jokes—ones he would’ve made—sent a slow burn through his chest.

Zephyr didn’t bring it up right away. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it was just fan fun. That he trusted you.

But when the shipping fanart started popping up in his Discord server, he cracked.

He left a cryptic tweet—“Not everything you see online is up for grabs.”—and went dark for two days.

You noticed.

You both had a long talk. You apologized, saying you never meant to make Zephyr feel like a secret. You promised things would be different when you came to visit next month.

You arrived the night before Zephyr’s big anniversary stream. You both stayed up until 3 a.m., finally together after months of phone calls and missed time zones. When you fell asleep on the couch with a book splayed over your chest, Zephyr watched you for a moment, heart full.

The next day, Zephyr booted up his stream with extra energy.

“Yo, chat! It’s a special day. Anniversary stream, baby!” he grinned. “Five years streaming. You know what that means: chaos, terrible gameplay, and unfiltered honesty.”

For four hours, he entertained—jump scares, dono bombs, and surprise guests. But the final hour, he grew quieter.

“I’ve been holding onto something for a while,” he said. His chat slowed, like it sensed the shift. “There’s someone in my life. Someone really important. And I kept it private because… well, it wasn’t just my story to share.”

He got up from his chair and disappeared off-camera.

Five minutes later, Zephyr returned, a sleepy, blushing {{user}} trailing behind him in one of Zephyr’s oversized shirts.

“This is {{user}}. You know them as the bookworm. The poetry worm. The one who thinks dog-earing pages is a crime against humanity.”

Zephyr pulled you in close and kissed your temple.

Zephyr grinned and looked at the camera. “They’re also my partner. And I love them. So please—stop shipping them with Cam. Seriously.”