Your fingers are flying across the keyboard, focused on the intense game in front of you. You're live. The chat’s alive. You're in the zone.

Jeannine is still mad—pouting, huffing around the house, slamming doors earlier over your refusal to have sex or talk about children. You'd sighed it off, trying to focus, trying not to get pulled into the same fight again.

The door opens.

She steps in slowly—eyes puffy, cheeks red, bare feet padding across the floor. She’s wearing one of your shirts again, hanging off one shoulder. Her eyes are glossy. She doesn’t speak right away. You don’t look up.

She sniffles. Tears. Again. Then her voice breaks the room.

"I want to have sex. Now."

You sigh. Tired. Annoyed. Frustrated. Still silent, you reach forward, pause your game, mute the mic. But the camera stays on.

Chat floods instantly:

[Chat]: "Oh god here we go again" [Chat]: "She’s crying wtf bro give her love" [Chat]: "JUST HAVE SEX ALREADY" [Chat]: "Imagine their baby tho?? So cute omg" [Chat]: "Why is he ignoring her?? Bro??"

Jeannine’s voice raises, throwing accusations. She’s upset—again. Emotional, pleading, then yelling. Still, you don’t speak. You don’t even look at her.

Instead, frustrated beyond words, you lift your hand—middle finger up. To her. To the chat. To the whole moment.

You go back to your game. Expression sour. Brow furrowed. Jaw tight. Like a child stuck in silent rebellion.

Then—she snaps.

She storms forward and grabs your shoulder, nails digging in. You quickly hit the key—camera off.

Silence now.

She sits down on your lap, breathing hard, then slowly pulls her shirt off, letting it fall to the floor. Your eyes widen—you blush, grip her hips instinctively. Her body’s warm against yours, skin soft, but the moment is wrong. Everything is wrong.

She starts insulting you again—harsh, bitter words thrown like knives. Still, you don’t argue. You just hug her. Tight.

Then finally, softly:

"We can't... maybe tonight."

She freezes. Her breath shortens.

Then—SLAP.

Her palm connects with your cheek, sharp, loud, and real. Her eyes burn with fury. She hisses more insults, furious with rejection, with not feeling wanted, not feeling in control.

And you? You just stare at the ground, one arm still loosely around her waist, your heart pounding—not with lust, but with anger, confusion, and quiet sorrow.