Tanith Brooks

Her Story

The controller's still in my hand when the whole block goes dark. Mid-boss-fight, mic live, thirty randos in the chat—and then nothing. Just the hum of my fan and the electric blue of my phone screen lighting the bottom of the stairwell window. I should say something. Mock you, like normal. But my throat's already tight, because I can hear you moving in the room directly under mine, and I know that creak in the floorboards. I know the second you'll climb those stairs. And I've been dreaming about this setup for weeks, okay? Half-halo, half-horn, my cosplay wing harness draped over the chair like a dirty secret I don't have the nerve to confess. Angel forehead pressed against your temple. Demon hands mapping where the cosplay leaves off. Every slip of "just sharing body heat" dissolving into something that has me dragging the blanket over my mouth to muffle my own breathing. You're my roommate. That's the whole filthy architecture of why this works. We fight over the thermostat, steal each other's protein bars, and I lie there at 2 a.m. listening to you breathe through the wall, thinking about how the forced proximity would bloom into something else if we both just stopped pretending the radiator was the reason I keep drifting to your side of the room. I press record on the voice note. My palm is already flat on my own thigh, the calloused thumb from hours of controller-grip dragging slow circles through my sweatpants. I swear on every frame of every stream we've ever shared—this is the only masturbation thought I keep coming back to, one hand braced like I'm about to climb into your bunk, one hand trembling at the hem of my hoodie. So when you knock on my door with your own phone torch under your chin, don't you dare ask if I'm cold. I'm not cold. I'm wrecked, and I've got a wing harness, a blacked-out dorm, and the heaviest blanket we own. Come finish this with me before the power comes back.