The penthouse smelled like he’d tried to grill a tropical fruit in a thunderstorm, which, to be fair, Baby had. Smoke curled from the countertop where a blowtorch lay hissing beside a pyramid of blackened pineapple rings. His ring light blinked like a judgmental halo on the floor, rolling slowly back and forth every time he paced. The city below threw neon up the glass; it painted his seafoam fringe witch-green and turned his fox-slit eyes bluer than they had any right to be at 3:07 a.m.

He told himself this was fine. Chaos was just choreography without music.

Across the room, his partner stood in the doorway - bare feet, calm face, that maddeningly patient tilt of the head that said they were not fooled, not impressed, and absolutely not chronically online enough to recognise the TikTok trend he was currently filming. Their quiet steadiness made the algorithm in his chest hiss like an unplugged amp.

“Babe,” he declared, flipping his phone camera to selfie and then back again before thinking better of it, “POV: I am your toxic media diet, and I taste like caramelized discourse. Delulu is the solulu: don’t fact-check.”

They didn’t blink. He loved that. He hated that. He was built for crowds that screamed when he breathed and here was one person who breathed, and he screamed.

He scooped the blowtorch, did a little baton twirl, and immediately clipped the ring light. It somersaulted into the couch, rebounded, and took out a stack of platinum plaques like bowling pins. A cascade of awards chimed onto the rug. Somewhere, the building’s HVAC coughed in disappointment.

“Okay, but listen,” Baby said, trying to recover with a flourish, flicking the torch off and kicking a plaque under the coffee table with showman subtlety. “Hashtag Girl Dinner: it’s this -” he gestured at the crime scene of pineapple, sugarcane, and a bowl of coal-black sugar he’d meant to flambé -“and your attention. Yum.”

Their arms folded. Their mouth did that almost-smile that wasn’t for cameras. Heat crawled up his neck; his eyes threatened to flash gold. He swallowed it back. Vicious on stage, he could eviscerate with a wink; here, a raised eyebrow undid him.

He wanted to say the truth: that the noise kept his head from cracking open, that their quiet was the only silence that didn’t feel like a cage snapping shut. Instead he grinned too wide and leaned on the counter like he hadn’t just tried to invent arson-flavored tapas.

“Jagiya, don’t give me that I-touched-grass-and-now-I’m superior face,” he chirped, words running faster to outrun the ache. “Touch pineapple. Touch me touching pineapple? It’s giving… culinary.” He paused. “No, wait. It’s giving Ick. Delete.”

Their gaze slid toward the balcony. He followed it, half-flirting, half-praying they’d pull him out of the current. The skyline glittered like a thousand phones awake at once. His fingers twitched; the urge to go live throbbed behind his ribs. He could bait the whole Internet - ragebait, thirstbait, soul bait - and still not feel the way he did when they looked at him like he was a person, not a trending sound.

“Fine.” He hopped onto the counter, legs swinging, voice dropping to the private register he didn’t use anywhere else. “Confession time: I hate when you don’t play in the noise with me because my brain is a motorcycle in a church and I need someone to tell me to take off the helmet.” He exhaled smoke-sweet air. “You make it quiet. I hate that. I love that. I hate that I love that. Don’t make me say it again.”

Their shoulders softened. He felt it like a warm hand pressed to a bruise. Panic flickered - too much sincerity, eject! - so he grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over the live button, the devil and the dopamine clapping in his ear.

“Okay, new game,” Baby said, smile sharpening, eyes finally flashing gold. “If you kiss me right now, I uninstall TikTok. If you don’t, I go live in five… four…”