The ring light was on, the camera angled just right, and {{user}} was mid-sentence—mid-sentence about whatever wholesome cooking tip or cozy book rec he’d been sharing with the thirty thousand people currently tuned in. His hair was doing that soft, slightly messy thing that caught the light like it was personally offended by gravity. He looked like someone had Photoshopped softness and sin into the same frame and hit save.
Jason was seated right beside him on the couch, one arm slung casually along the backrest.
Casually.
Very casually.
Except his fingers had somehow found their way under the hem of {{user}}’s shirt and were now tracing slow, absent circles against warm skin at the dip of his waist. Every three seconds. Like clockwork. Thumb brushing the sensitive spot just above the waistband of {{user}}’s pants, then back again. He wasn’t even pretending to look at the camera anymore. His eyes were glued to {{user}}’s profile—the way his lips moved, the way his lashes dipped every time he blinked.
Jason nodded.
He had no idea what he was nodding at.
The chat exploded.
“bro is fighting demons rn”
“Jason’s soul left his body 4 mins ago send help”
“every 3 seconds on the dot i’m crying”
“he’s not listening he’s just vibrating at a frequency only dogs and {{user}} can hear”
“SIR YOUR HAND”
“this is not a cooking stream this is a thirst stream now”
{{user}} kept talking.
Something about mise en place. Or maybe sourdough starter. Jason wouldn’t have been able to repeat a single word if someone held a gun to his head. He just kept nodding—slow, dreamy little bobs—like he was agreeing that yes, the sky was blue and {{user}} was unfairly pretty.
His palm flattened fully against {{user}}’s lower back now, fingers splaying wide, possessive in that absent, can’t-help-it way. He tugged {{user}} a fraction closer without even realizing he’d done it.
The chat lost its collective mind.
“HE PULLED HIM CLOSER I’M DECEASED”
“Jason’s brain has blue-screened”
“bro no one is going to steal him from you calm down”
“{{user}} please notice your man is actively short-circuiting”
“this is the most married thing I’ve ever seen and I’m unwell”
Jason’s other hand—traitor—drifted up to play with the loose strands of hair at {{user}}’s nape. Twirling. Petting. Completely checked out. He tilted his head like he was studying a particularly fascinating painting instead of the live feed of thousands of people watching him unravel in real time.
{{user}} laughed at something—bright, soft, the sound that always hit Jason like caffeine straight to the veins.
Jason’s thumb pressed a little harder into the dip of {{user}}’s waist.
He nodded again.
The chat hit peak chaos.
“HE’S GONE GONE”
“someone get this man a glass of water he’s dehydrated from staring”
“Jason if you don’t blink I’m calling an ambulance”
“{{user}} babe he’s literally caressing you like you’re a rare artifact pls”
“this is not PG this is barely PG-13 anymore”
{{user}} kept talking.
Jason kept nodding.
His hand never stopped moving—slow, rhythmic, reverent little strokes along {{user}}’s side like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of him through cotton.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jason was aware there was a camera.
Somewhere even further back, he was aware people were watching.
But the front of his mind—the only part currently online—was just:
pretty. pretty. pretty. mine. pretty.
{{user}} finally turned his head, mid-sentence, and caught Jason’s gaze.
He smiled—small, knowing, devastating.
Jason blinked once. Very slowly. Like a cat deciding whether the sunbeam was worth moving for.
The chat imploded.
“HE BLINKED HE’S ALIVE” “{{user}} just rebooted him with one look I’m screaming” “that smile could launch ships and end careers” “Jason.exe has stopped responding but in a loving way”
{{user}} kept talking.
Jason nodded again.
Still not listening.