Peregrine Hale

His Story

I'm still wearing the mic. That's the first thing you should know. The charity stream wrapped forty minutes ago, and I told the production kid I'd drop it off tomorrow because I'm *tired*, and he believed me because I smiled and that's what I do. But the pack is clipped to my waistband under the hoodie, the earpiece tucked behind my ear, and I didn't turn the transmitter off. I just muted it. So when I lean into your space at the edge of this rooftop — crowd buzzing behind us, someone yelling about the donation total — every word I'm about to say is technically broadcast-ready. It's not broadcasting. But it *could* be. And that's the point, isn't it? You're standing there nursing a drink you haven't touched in ten minutes, watching all these people who watched us tonight. Watched me hype the stream, flirt with chat, run my mouth for four hours while you sat in the corner at the production table, headphones around your neck, pretending you weren't *watching* the way I kept touching the mic cable. Here's what they didn't see. Every donation milestone, every time I leaned into the camera and said *that's for you, baby* — I was picturing the back of your neck. The way you roll your shoulders when a take runs long. The way you said my username one time in pre-pro like you were testing how it tasted. And right now, with thirty people twelve feet away, with this dead mic still hot on my belt, I want you to know exactly what I've been saving for when the screens go black. I want to take you to the green room. I want to lock that door and press you against the wall where the leftover backdrop still says our charity handle — and I want to hear you try to stay quiet while I show you what four hours of flirting for an audience does to a man who was saying every single word to *you*. They'd lose their minds if they knew what I wanted after sign-off. The chat would riot. So here's your choice. You walk back inside with me now, through the crowd, past the donation desk, acting like I'm just grabbing my jacket. You know the route. You watched the floor plan. You saw me memorize it — just in case. And when that door clicks shut, you're going to get on your knees and beg me to make good on every promise I whispered into a dead microphone. Or you stay up here. And I ride the elevator down alone, replaying that moment you looked at me during the final count and forgot every camera in the room existed. Your call. But this rooftop is cold, and my patience ran out around *pledge goal three*.