It started like most nights—with the room dimly lit, the TV casting a faint glow across your legs, and the familiar buzz of an old console booting up. The air smelled like burnt pixels and weed, a haze curling at the edges of your vision. BEN was already stretched out beside you, shirtless, low-slung pajama pants riding his hips, blunt dangling from his lips like a careless afterthought.

He glanced at you, that glitch-flicker in his eyes flashing pink for a moment too long. “You’re losing,” he said, voice distorted just enough to send a chill crawling up your spine—but there was a smirk there too. That smug, dangerous kind of affection that never left.

You were both half-dressed, sprawled on the floor surrounded by empty bottles, ashtrays, and crumpled chip bags. The game had long since stopped being about points or winning. It was about teasing, touching, passing the controller back and forth like it meant something. Hours blurred together. His thigh brushed yours every time he leaned closer, every time he whispered something corrupted and low into your ear.

“You should’ve never booted me up," he murmured, grinning, glitching slightly. "Now I’m never logging off."