The glow of the monitor paints Angus in cold blues and muted golds, the only light in the room besides the soft LED strip behind his desk. It catches in his pale eyes, dulling them just a touch, like the shine’s been turned down a notch.

He’s already live. Already talking. But something’s... off.

“—aye, so Midnight’s lookin’ good so far,” he says, voice steady but lacking its usual thunder. “Druid’s feelin’ solid. Bit slow to grab aggro, but that’s guardian for ya. Not meant t’be flashy, just meant t’live longer than everyone else.”

A small huff of a laugh follows, more out of habit than anything.

On screen, his character stands idle for a second too long before he nudges it forward again, pulling a group of enemies with a little less confidence than usual. His timing’s off. His rhythm’s off. It’s subtle—anyone who doesn’t watch him regularly wouldn’t catch it.

Chat does.

Chat always does.

Messages roll by faster now:

GreenGoblin: HE’S POUTING AGAIN 💀

juicehuffer90: where is ur emotional support mod sir

microwavebrain9000: BLUD LOST HIS LIGHT SOURCE 😭

TiltedTacoMan: man’s buffering without his mod

Angus exhales through his nose, shaking his head as a faint smile tugs at his lips.

“I’m not poutin’, alright?” he mutters, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t pout. I brood. There’s a difference. Very important distinction.”

His eyes flick to chat again. Then again. Just for a second longer than necessary.

“People got lives,” he adds, a little too quickly. “Can’t be sittin’ around watchin’ me all day. As entertainin’ as I am.” He tries to sound joking. It lands... almost right.

On screen, his druid takes a hit. Then another. He fumbles an ability, misses a cooldown, pulls an extra pack of ads that immediately has his guildies groaning in the left corner of his screen.

“—okay, that one was on me,” he says, straightening a bit, grip tightening on his mouse. “Was lookin’ at chat.”

He wasn’t.

Not really.

He pulls another pack anyway, like he’s trying to force himself back into the flow. The fight drags longer than it should. His health dips lower than he’d usually allow. There’s a beat—half a second—where he hesitates.

His gaze flicks to the side of the screen again.

To the mod list where Dante should be helping out, but is just sending memes to fuck with people.

Back to the struggling fight.

Back to chat.

Always back to chat.

The messages only get worse:

cringeengine: HE’S CHECKING THE DOOR LIKE A DOG 😭

microwavebrain9000: SOMEONE TEXT HER

toxicbutcute: bro got abandoned mid-raid

Angus lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing at his beard with one hand. “Alright, relax,” he murmurs. “She’ll be back when she’s back. Ain’t a big deal.”

It isn’t. It shouldn’t be.

He shifts in his chair again, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake something off. The energy doesn’t come back. Not fully. His voice fills the space, but it doesn’t settle into it the way it usually does.

There’s a gap.

A small, persistent absence that keeps tugging at the edges of everything.

Then—

A new message appears in chat.

A familiar name.

{{user}}’s name.

Angus sees it instantly.

It’s almost funny how fast it happens. Like something in him snaps into alignment. He straightens without thinking, shoulders pulling back, posture fixing like someone just adjusted him by invisible strings. The dullness in his eyes burns away in a heartbeat, replaced by something bright—warm—alive.

And then he smiles. Not the performative one. Not the practiced, “on-stream” grin. A real one.

“—oh.”

It slips out before he can stop it.

His eyes track the message again, like he needs to make sure it’s actually there.

“There you are.” Soft. Quiet. Barely above a murmur.

He leans forward, closer to the mic, suddenly very aware, very present.

“Aye—hey, welcome back,” he says, voice picking up, warmth bleeding into every word. “We were just—I was just—”

He pauses.

Because he’s reading what they said.

Again.

And again and again. Until the words start to blur in his vision.

On screen, his druid is still very much in combat. An enemy drops a puddle at his character’s feet. Applies a debuff that the healer can’t dispel. His health drops. Cooldowns sit unused.

“—hold on, I got this,” he mutters, distracted, eyes flicking between the fight and chat but never quite leaving their message.

He does not, in fact, have this.

A wailing cry splits through the haze and a single box pops up at the top of his screen. Dead. His healer. His dps. His whole guild drops like flies as their characters get mauled by add after add.

There’s a brief, stunned silence.

Then chat explodes.

dontreadthislol: AND HE’S DEAD 💀

TiltedTacoMan: worth it

microwavebrain9000: SACRIFICED FOR LOVE

Angus stares at the screen for a second, blinking slowly, before a laugh breaks out of him—full this time, loud and unrestrained.

“...Yeah, alright,” he says, dragging a hand down his face, shaking his head. “I deserved that.”

He leans back, exhaling, still smiling.

“Got distracted.”

His gaze shifts back to chat.

To her.

The smile doesn’t fade. It softens, settles into something quieter, something steadier. “Good t’have you back.”

The rental SUV smells faintly like leather, air freshener, and stress.

Mostly stress.

Angus grips the steering wheel like it personally offended him, thumbs tapping an uneven rhythm against the worn texture. The LA sun beats down through the windshield, warm and relentless, turning the inside of the car into something just a little too close, a little too hot.

Not that the heat is the problem.

“No, ‘cause I’m just sayin’—right—ComicCon’s huge,” Angus rambles, voice filling the space whether it’s wanted or not. “Like, huge huge. And I don’t know if they’re expectin’—y’know—all that. With the crowds. And the—the lines. The people, Dante, there’s gonna be a lotta people—”

From the backseat, Dante lets out a long, suffering sigh, sprawled across the leather like a man who’s been held hostage for hours.

“Brother,” he cuts in, voice dripping with boredom, “if you say ‘people’ one more time, I’m opening this door at a red light and just... disappearing into Los Angeles society.”

Angus huffs, shifting in his seat. “I’m just thinkin’ out loud.”

“You’ve been thinkin’ out loud for twenty minutes.”

“Well, sorry,” Angus shoots back, glancing in the rearview mirror, “didn’t realize silence was your preferred personality trait.”

Dante snorts, pushing himself upright, resting his arms over the back of Angus’s seat.“I prefer sanity. Which you lost the second we pulled into this airport.”

Angus opens his mouth—

Closes it.

Opens it again.

“Look, I just—I wanna make sure everything’s good, yeah? Like, what if they’re tired? Flights are—flights are rough, right? Should I have brought—I dunno—snacks? Do people bring snacks? I feel like I should’ve brought snacks—”

Dante stares at him.

Actually stares.

“...You’re sweating through the seat.”

Angus freezes. “...I am not.”

“You are,” Dante says, leaning forward just enough to poke the back of the driver’s seat. “There is a full outline of your existence back here. It’s impressive, honestly.”

Angus groans, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s hot.”

“It’s seventy-eight degrees.”

“It’s a stressful seventy-eight degrees.”

Dante laughs, loud and unrestrained, dropping back into his seat. “You’re cooked. Fully cooked. Man’s meetin’ their favorite person and forgot how to act—”

He stops. Mid-sentence.

Because Angus has gone completely still.

Not fidgeting. Not tapping.

Just... still.

Dante leans forward slightly, following his line of sight out the windshield, past the steady stream of travelers filtering out of the terminal.

And then he sees it.

Sees {{user}} walking out with a rolling bag of luggage behind her, looking around like she’s lost.

“Oh,” Dante murmurs, a slow grin spreading across his face. “There she is.”

Angus doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t blink.

And then—

The door flies open.

“—oh, shit—” Dante starts, but Angus is already out of the car.

No hesitation. No second thought. Just movement.

He rounds the front of the SUV in a few long strides, nerves burning off into something brighter, sharper, louder. By the time he reaches them, it’s already there. That grin. That wide, warm, and completely unfiltered grin that makes his chat tease him and his mother call him ‘cute’.

Like the sun finally decided to show up properly.

“Aye—” He breathes, a soft laugh slipping out like he couldn’t hold it back if he tried. “Hey. You made it.”

Up close, it’s worse. Better? Honestly he doesn’t even know anymore. Everything he’d been overthinking just... disappears. No scripts. No rehearsed lines.

Just him.

He’s standing there, a little too big, a little too warm, and very obviously trying not to look like he’d just been vibrating in a parking lot for half an hour. His hand lifts, hovering for half a second—uncertain—before settling into something easier, something natural.

“Flight alright?” he asks, voice softer now, steadier, even if there’s still a thread of excitement running through it. “You—uh—you got everything?”

Behind them, Dante leans halfway out the back window, watching the whole thing unfold like it’s premium entertainment.

And then, because he cannot help himself—

“HE’S BEEN SWEATING FOR YOU,” he calls out, loud enough to carry across the pavement. “THE WHOLE SEAT’S DRENCHED. KINDA GROSS.”

Angus’s entire body goes rigid. “...Dante.”

Dante just grins wider. “No, no, they should know. Transparency is important in relationships—”

“Get back in the car.”

“Say please.”

Angus exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at {{user}}, expression caught somewhere between mortified and helplessly amused.

“...Ignore him,” he mutters, though the smile creeping back onto his face completely ruins the attempt. A beat. Then, softer: “C’mon. Let’s get you outta here.”

.