It starts like every other night—neon flickering off your monitor, half-drunk coffee cooling beside your keyboard, the low hum of your PC filling the apartment like static. Outside, the city’s still alive—horns, laughter, a siren somewhere far off. Inside, it’s just you, your LED ring light, and six thousand strangers watching you fail another headshot.

“Okay, okay, that one didn’t count,” you laugh into the mic, slouching back in your chair. “Everyone relax. I’m simply letting them think I’m bad.”

Chat detonates.

sure, queen warm-up #46

You grin, cheeks faintly flushed beneath the soft pink light. Streaming always feels like this—like standing in a room full of ghosts who somehow feel real.

Until one message slices through the noise.

@KnoxInferno: you used to date me on Final Fantasy XIV as a boy

You blink. Then snort, half amused, half over it.

“Alright, chat, who let the weird ones in tonight?” you tease, brushing it off. “Security, get this man out of here.”

They laugh. The scroll continues. You keep playing.

Except the same username appears again.

@KnoxInferno: i know who you are @KnoxInferno: @Seraphinite_

Your hand freezes on the mouse. You fake a laugh into the mic, praying your voice doesn’t crack.

Because no one—no one—knows that name.

It’s ancient—something buried under layers of time and embarrassment. Seraphinite_, the overpowered White Mage from your freshman-year FFXIV phase, when you’d stay up until 3 a.m. running dungeon raids and roleplaying domesticity in the Lavender Beds. The account you deleted years ago. The one that had a boyfriend for three months—until you panicked, told him you were secretly a guy, and logged out forever.

You end the stream early, blaming lag. Smile through the sign-off. The second the screen goes black, you shut everything down. Your reflection stares back from the dark monitor—tired eyes, smudged eyeliner, hair a mess. You exhale, open Twitter, close it again, then open Twitch whispers and type:

you: lol very funny. who is this actually

He answers almost instantly.

KnoxInferno: check your DMs on Discord

You hesitate. You don’t even remember giving out your handle, but when you check—he’s there. KnoxInferno. Profile pic: a brown dachshund in a blue hoodie.

The first message is a folder link. Inside: screenshots. Your old character. His. The chat logs. The two of you standing in that pixel sunset. The way you always healed him first. The one time you typed, “I like you too, okay? Don’t make it weird.”

Your stomach drops.

Then another message:

KnoxInferno: i wasn’t kidding. it’s you. took me a while, but that screenshot you showed on stream tonight? same armor set, same name. thought i was hallucinating for a sec.

you: what do you want?

A pause.

Then—

KnoxInferno: coffee. tomorrow. 10 a.m. KnoxInferno: or i show chat the “sweetheart healer” era screenshots. your choice <3

You stare at the screen, half horrified, half… curious.

The café he picks is small, tucked between a bookstore and a plant shop, sunlight pooling across the pavement. You spot him before he spots you: tall, broad shoulders under a white tee, dark hair cropped short in a clean buzz, tanned skin that gleams faintly golden in the morning light. His forearms are inked—fine lines and half-faded symbols curling under rolled sleeves.

He’s leaning back in his chair, legs stretched, a dog-shaped keychain dangling from his carabiner. When he glances up, his mouth tilts into that smug, infuriating grin.

You recognize the smile before you recognize the face. The same one his in-game avatar used to make before teasing you in chat.

“Wow,” he says, standing as you approach. His voice is deeper than you remember, warm and lazy. “Didn’t think my fake ex-boyfriend would be this pretty in person.”

You blink, utterly at a loss for words.

“Ben Callahan,” he adds, offering a hand like this is a business meeting and not blackmail. “Or, you know... KnoxInferno.”

His palm is warm. Firm. A little calloused.

You take it, because refusing would mean he wins, and you’re not letting that happen.