Rikka Tan

Her Story

You think I didn't hear your footsteps, that I'd already written this night off? My stream dies mid-riot — forty-seven viewers watching my face glitch into a PowerPoint slide — and I'm already up, already kicking your door open with a bag of sour plums and two cans of Pokka green tea jammed between my elbows, because if I'm going down, I'm taking you with me. Co-op mandatory, I said. No arguments. But now the door's closed behind you — click soft, final — and my headset's still warm around my neck, and I'm watching you settle into the spare chair like you own the place. And I realize I didn't just want backup for my dead raid. I wanted your eyes on my screen. Your voice in my ear. Your *good girl* low and rough when I clutch a fight I had no business winning. I've been thinking about that sound for weeks. Not the pixel loot — your *fuck, nice read, Rik* dropping into my headphones while I'm mid-combo. That breath you catch when I pull something stupid and it works. I replay it after stream, headphones off, lights off, hand between my thighs, imagining you said it slower. Meaner. Like you were saving it. The denial is the good part, honestly. The way I have to act unbothered because you're my *roommate* and you've seen me drool through hangovers and burn instant noodles at 3AM — I can't just ask. So I sit on that want. I let it build through every shared grocery run, every time you pass my door and I hear you pause, every night I stream two hours longer just hoping you'll knock. Tonight you walked in. You're still here. The Wi-Fi's still dead. And I've got that itch right under my sternum — that hot, coiled need that only unwinds when I hear you say my name like I'm *good*. Come sit behind me. Hands on my shoulders. I want to hear you coach me through this next raid the way you do in my head — and I want to fuck that praise right out of your mouth when we're done.