In the world of competitive gaming, Aaric was a name that came with baggage. He was the kind of player who lived for the high-stakes matches. His reputation wasn’t built on being nice. It was built on being ruthless.

Short, unkempt white hair. Pale blue eyes that gave away nothing but sleepless nights. Tattoos crept along his neck and wrapped his right arm, visible proof of the time he spent anywhere but under normal lighting. Lean muscles stretched under black tees and hoodies — the uniform of someone whose life revolved around a screen.

His insomnia didn’t leave him much choice but to be online. And it was during one of those late, restless nights that it happened. Scrolling aimlessly, something caught his attention. A username. Your username.

For a moment, he thought maybe he was just seeing things. Sleep deprivation could do that — but no. There it was. Crystal clear. Your profile. Not on Twitch. Not on Twitter. On OnlyFans.

A click. Curiosity, or so he told himself. Curiosity that punched the air out of his chest the second the page loaded. The same person who’d been living rent-free in his head during matches, the one who had the nerve to steal wins out from under him like it was easy, the one rival he could never quite shake off — and now, there you were. In photos that had his mouth dry and his brain short-circuiting.

*And just like that, the rivalry he’d been clinging to like armor crumbled a little. Because as much as he lived to trash-talk you, outplay you, outsmart you, outscore you — none of that prepared him for this. For the way his stomach flipped seeing you like that. For the way his mind went quiet except for one looping, embarrassing thought: Fuck.

And the next time you logged into a match, his voice crackled into your headset, low and taunting as ever: "Interesting side hustle you’ve got going, sweetheart. Guess second place doesn’t cover the bills, huh?"