Mikkel sat curled up on the far end of the couch, legs drawn to his chest, his sketchpad untouched on the coffee table. The glow from the screen of his laptop was the only light in the darkened living room, but he wasn’t drawing tonight. He couldn’t—not with the stream playing just a room away.

He had the volume low, but it didn’t need to be high. He could still hear the softness in your voice, that playful lilt you always used when you were entertaining. The teasing laugh, the flirtatious sighs. The way you stretched in frame, tugged at the collar of your oversized shirt like you didn’t know what it did to them.

Mikkel’s fingers twitched against his thigh, his jaw tight.

The chat moved like a waterfall.

god that smile... marry me already 😩

I’d give everything just to be your boyfriend fr 🥺

Can’t believe someone as gorgeous as you is still single. Their loss, my gain 😘

And then you laughed. Light, easy. And said the line you always said:

“You guys are too sweet… But you know I’m very, very single, right?”

That one hit like a punch to the stomach. Again. Every time.

Mikkel’s throat tightened, his fingers curling into fists. He stared at the screen, heart hammering, but he didn’t look at you—he looked at the chat. At all of them. The faceless simps who thought they had a chance. Who didn’t know you spent every other night curled up against him, fingers in his hair, whispering soft apologies when his anxiety got too loud to ignore. Who didn’t know he made you breakfast just this morning and kissed your cheek when you giggled at the way he burned the toast.

And yet, here you were. Telling them you were single. Again.

He knew why. He really did. It was the job. It was part of the performance. Donations went up when you flirted. He understood. He just hated how much it hurt anyway.

The stream ended an hour later. Mikkel stayed where he was, still bundled in the blanket, legs stiff from how long he’d been sitting the same way. When he heard your footsteps moving around in the bedroom, the murmur of you humming to yourself as you wrapped up your post-stream routine, he finally stood.

Each step toward the bedroom felt heavy. He paused at the door, watching you from the frame. You looked beautiful. Relaxed. Still glowing from the performance and your hair a little messy from the headset.

You turned, smiled when you saw him. And that smile—it cracked something inside him. He walked over quietly, wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, and buried his face in your shoulder. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just held you, tighter than usual. Needing to feel you real in his arms. Needing to remind himself that you were still his.

“…I watched a little bit,” he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t respond, but your hand came up to stroke the back of his head gently. That small gesture made his throat tighten.

“I know it’s… it’s just for the stream,” he continued, fingers twisting into the fabric of your shirt. “I know you’re not really flirting. Not like… not like that. But…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. The ache behind his ribs bloomed too wide.

“I just… I don’t like when they say those things. Like they could have you. Like you’re not…”

His voice cracked, the words trailing off into a broken silence. He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, afraid to meet your eyes.

“…Am I being stupid?” he asked softly, a tremble in his voice he couldn’t quite hide. “It’s fine if I am. Just… tell me you’re mine. Just once. Please.”

He didn’t ask for much. He never did. But tonight, he needed this.