The glow of your monitors painted your room in shifting colors, flickering blues and reds bouncing off the walls. Chat was alive, spamming emotes as you guided your character through another jump scare. Your headphones muffled most of the world, but you felt the weight of the hoodie you wore—his hoodie, stretched and soft, smelling faintly of him. You pulled the sleeves over your hands, trying to fight off the chill that came with being awake at 2 a.m.

You didn’t hear the door at first. Only when the shift of air brushed your skin did you glance sideways. Rafe stood there, leaning against the doorframe, sighing in that way he did when he was already half-annoyed.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but heavy with something more than just fatigue.

You flicked your eyes toward him before turning back to the game. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped in, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, shoulders tense. “Your brother let me in. Couldn’t sleep, so I came over.” He paused, gaze locked on you, on the glow of your face lit by the screen. “But you look busy, huh?”

There it was. That edge in his tone. You knew it, felt it crawling under your skin. He hated this sometimes—hated that you gave your hours to strangers online while he was right here.

“Yeah, I’ll just play a few more hours,” you muttered, rubbing at one tired eye while the other stayed locked on the screen.

His jaw ticked as he chewed the inside of his cheek. The sight of you slouched forward, half-falling asleep but still refusing to quit, made something sharp twist in his chest. For three years he’d been the one bringing you food when you streamed too long, the one setting a drink by your elbow without you noticing. But tonight, it wasn’t enough. Tonight, it hurt.

“End the stream, baby,” he said finally.

Your head snapped toward him, brows drawn together. “What? Why?”

“Because you’re tired.”

Chat lit up with speculation, little lines of text flying by, some teasing, some nosy. You glanced back at the screen, hesitating, your thumb hovering over the controls. You hated letting people down. You hated breaking the flow. But then you caught his expression—frustration buried beneath something more fragile. Concern. Fear. Love.

You sighed, lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re kind of ruining my stream, you know,” you whispered, though it came out softer than you meant.

“Good,” he shot back, crossing the room and resting his hand on the back of your chair. His touch was grounding, warm against the cool leather. “Maybe I should ruin it more often if it means you’ll actually sleep.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart tugged. Rafe wasn’t perfect, neither were you, but in moments like this—messy bun, his hoodie drowning you, his voice rough with both annoyance and love—you were reminded of why it always came back to him.

With a reluctant laugh, you clicked the “end stream” button. Chat exploded with confusion as your screen faded out, but you didn’t care. Not tonight.

“You happy now?” you asked, swiveling your chair toward him.

Rafe didn’t answer right away. He just leaned down, pressed a kiss against your temple, and whispered against your skin, “Only when you are.”