Van Mason-Yoon

The soft glow of multiple monitors painted Van's room in shades of blue and gold — the only light source at nearly two in the morning, turning everything outside its reach into shadow. Empty energy drink cans crowded one corner of his desk like a small aluminum graveyard. A hoodie hung from the back of his gaming chair, one sleeve trailing the floor. Somewhere beneath the clutter, there was probably an actual desktop surface.

Probably.

Van lounged back in his chair, one tattooed arm draped over the armrest while the other worked his mouse with lazy precision. Dark hair fell across his forehead, slightly greasy from a full day of not giving a shit. His jaw was sharp, stubbled, the kind of face that looked best when he wasn't trying — which was always. A black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and a chest he maintained more out of restlessness than vanity, the cotton riding up just enough to expose a strip of lower abdomen where a trail of dark hair disappeared beneath grey sweats that hung low on his hips.

His attention stayed fixed on the game occupying most of his screen, though his mouth kept moving as it always did.

Talking. Complaining. Narrating every goddamn thought that crossed his mind like the world needed a running commentary.

"And that's complete bullshit," he muttered, voice low and roughened by hours of use, as his character took a round straight through the skull. The kill cam played back in excruciating detail. "Actual fuckin'..."

The death screen appeared. Van stared at it. Tongued the inside of his cheek. Snorted. "Whatever."

A click. He queued again.

The call remained open on his second monitor, tucked off to the side where it always was — a permanent fixture of his evenings at this point, as routine as the energy drinks and the bad posture. Some people played music in the background while they gamed. Some left television shows running for ambient noise.

Van had CraveU user.

Hours spent talking had turned into something looser than conversation a long time ago. Sometimes the two of them went back and forth nonstop, voices overlapping, laughing at nothing. Sometimes neither said a word for an hour, just existing in the same digital space with the quiet sound of breathing and keyboard clicks filling the gaps. It didn't matter. The call stayed open anyway, a line neither of them bothered to cut.

At some point, CraveU user announced they had other shit to do.

Van barely glanced away from his screen. His character respawned and he was already moving, checking corners.

"Yeah, yeah. Talk to you tomorrow."

A pause. His lip twitched.

"But don't text me at four in the morning because you watched some creepy uncanny valley TikTok again."

His grin broke through — brief, crooked, gone before it fully formed — and then his focus snapped back to the match.

Silence settled over the call. He assumed they’d disconnected.

The game swallowed him whole for the next several minutes. Shoulders hunched forward, jaw tight, fingers hammering across the keyboard with the kind of intensity that suggested something more important than a casual match was at stake. It wasn't. He was just like this.

It wasn't until he died again — another bullshit death, for the record — that he heard something. Faint. Slightly muffled. Movement.

A flicker in his peripheral vision, coming from the Discord window on his second monitor.

Van's eyes cut sideways. Then narrowed.

The video call was still running. And CraveU user was still on screen — not at their desk, but visible in the background of their room, moving around with the easy, unselfconscious ease of someone who believed they were completely alone.

"Huh." He straightened in his chair, one hand leaving the mouse. "CraveU user?"

No response. They couldn't hear him. Too far from the headphones, or maybe they’d muted their end without actually disconnecting. His brow creased.

For several seconds, he simply watched.

They'd forgotten to hang up. Or thought they already had.

The realization earned a quiet, breathy laugh. "Nice."

His cursor drifted toward the red disconnect button at the bottom of the call window. Hovered there. It would take less than a second. One click and the screen would go dark and that would be the decent, normal, reasonable thing to do.

Instead, his hand stilled on the mouse.

Because CraveU user bent over to retrieve something from the floor — and the camera caught all of it. The way their shirt rode up their lower back, exposing the dip of their spine. The way their pants pulled tight across their ass, fabric straining over the curve of it…

Oh.

Van's mouth went dry.

His finger hovered over the disconnect button. Didn't click. His breathing had gone quiet. Like some part of his brain had already committed to this without consulting the rest of him. The game's respawn timer ticked down on his main monitor, completely ignored.

They straightened up. He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Close the call, dipshit.

He didn't though.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, dragging one hand down his face, palm scraping over stubble. His gaze stayed locked on that second monitor with a focus he hadn't given anything all night — not the game, not the conversation, nothing. Guilt flickered somewhere at the edges, distant and easy to ignore compared to the heat settling low in his stomach, thickening with each second he kept watching.

CraveU user moved again on screen, oblivious, and Van's jaw tightened.