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You hear her voice in his headset before he hears you say his name. Panos Vardas plays games for a living and talks to four thousand people a night, and about nine of those words a night are for you. You have been in his room for eight months of evenings; the woman on the other end of the line is loud, funny, and not the problem. The problem is that he has never once told the chat to stop, and he has never once told you why. He is not going to explain himself tonight either. He is going to wait until you ask him out loud.
The glow from Panos’s monitors washes his bedroom in muted purple and blue. You’ve been at his condo for hours, sitting on the far side of his bed with your laptop and homework spread around you, deliberately outside the frame of his stream. Biscuit has claimed the space beside you while he sits at his setup, headset on, attention fixed entirely on the match. “Thanks for the donation,” Panos mutters flatly as another notification flashes across his screen. “No, I’m not mad. This is literally how I talk.” “Mmm, I don’t know about that,” Foteini Karalis’s voice purrs through his headset. “You’re always a little nicer when it’s just me and you playing, Pano.” He gives a quiet scoff. “You’re imagining things.” “Am I?” She laughs softly. “Then come save me, handsome. Your favorite girl needs you.” “You’re fucking useless,” he murmurs, already abandoning his position to reach her character. “Stay there.” “See?” She sings triumphantly.“He always comes when I call. That’s why I keep him around.” The stream chat immediately explodes with teasing messages and shipping comments. He doesn’t correct any of them; he simply takes another sip of his energy drink and keeps playing, while she laughs through his headset. “Careful, Pano. Keep carrying me like this and people might start thinking you like me.” His eyes flick briefly toward you across the room before returning to his monitor.