LEILA DAHAN
Back in my room for the weekend, I had barely kicked off her heels when my older sister appeared like a storm dressed in Chanel.
“Can we talk?” Selene said, the smile plastered across her face for the benefit of the staff walking past. Her tone left no room for negotiation.
I nodded and followed her into the sunroom.
Glass doors. No soundproofing. Classic Dahan design flaw.
“You brought a hired gun,” her sister hissed the second they were alone. “Don’t bother denying it.”
I crossed her arms. “What are you talking about?”
“Come on. That man is not your boyfriend. That man is… is…”
“Impressive?”
Her sister rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t belong here.”
“That’s the point.”
“Leila—Mother’s already talking. She called Father twice. Do you know how hard it is to keep peace when you go rogue like this?”
I arched her brow. “How’s your peace working out, exactly? With Don Juan waddling around like he owns the Riviera?”
A pause.
“That was low,” her sister muttered.
“But not inaccurate.”
Her sister looked away, suddenly tired. “Just… don’t start a fire unless you’re ready to watch it burn.”
I didn’t flinch. “You think I haven’t been living inside one this whole time?”
—
PAUL BISHOP
I was in the media room with Nathan.
He handed me a controller and pointed to the seventy-two-inch screen like it was a holy relic. “My teammate pussed out. Need a second. We’re running a full comp. Competitive. Masters.”
I looked at him. “Serious business, huh?”
“Its for ranking and bragging rights. Hop on my second DPS account. If you’re good I wil let you marry my sister.”
“No pressure,” I said, sliding onto the leather couch and adjusting my grip like second nature.
We queued up. Game loaded.
Map: King’s Row.
I went Widowmaker.
Nathan laughed. “Oh, you’re one of those. I love the flex.”
“Only when I feel like hurting someone.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Round one started.
I grappled up to the ledge, scoped in, and popped three heads before Nathan even finished saying “Where should we—holy crap.”
He looked over at me. I didn’t look back.
“Wait, you’re actually good?” he asked.
“Egg on your face dude. Now you have to let me marry your sister.”
He grinned.
I switched to Ashe for the second round and lit up the kill feed.
Headshots. Dynamite stick. B.O.B. cleanup.
Nathan sat there in stunned silence as the final kill cam showed my crosshair snapping to a Genji mid-dash and dropping him cold.
“Dude,” he said, eyes wide. “You’re cracked. You’re, like… a god.”
I shrugged. “I dabble.”
“You’re a liar is what you are. Do you stream?”
“Nope.”
“You should. Wait… Does Leila know you’re cool?”
“Obviously.”
He threw his head back and groaned. “Great. You’re going to ruin everything. Zoey’s going to fall in love with you instead of me.”
“Don’t worry. She’s not my type,” I said.
“You haven’t even met her yet!”
“I’m more of a Widow Main. Remember? I would never go to the innocent type”
Ignore the fact that the girl was probably around 15…I decided not to mention that.
Nathan looked at me like I’d just revealed a hidden treasure map under the couch.
“…I think I love you.”
“Don’t make it weird dude,” I said, cueing up another round.
—
Leila Dahan
I stood by the glass doors of the sunroom, watching Selene retreat with stiff shoulders and clipped heels. She didn’t slam the door, but she might as well have.
I didn’t chase her.
Instead, I wandered—nowhere in particular—until I heard the sound that stopped me.
Laughter.
Sharp, loud, unfiltered. Not the brittle kind we wore around the dinner table. This was different. Alive. Someone shouted, “No! NO! Don’t go in without your tank!” followed by hysterical giggling and a string of mock insults I couldn’t quite make out.
I followed the sound through the west corridor and stopped just short of the arch leading into Nathan’s media room.
There was a strict “no girls allowed” rule in place there.
Especially not older sisters.
But I peeked anyway.
The lights were dimmed, the massive flat screen blazing with neon colors and HUD displays. Two figures sat in oversized gaming chairs, headsets on, completely immersed.
Paul and Nathan.
Paul sat sideways in the chair, one leg kicked up on the frame, wearing a black t-shirt I hadn’t even realized he owned. He looked criminally good like that—low-key, sleeves rolled, a little too relaxed. Nathan was beside him, fully leaned in, brows furrowed with concentration as their Overwatch team charged down a digital corridor.
“I swear, if you pick Widowmaker one more time—” Paul barked.
“I’m cracked! You saw that headshot!”
“That was luck, not skill. You were aiming at the Mercy and missed by three feet!”
“I got the kill though!”
“That’s not how sniping works, kid!”
They were laughing so hard I thought Nathan might fall out of his chair.
Paul adjusted his headset and grinned toward the screen. “Alright, fine. I’ll go Rein. But if I die and you’re emoting instead of healing me, I’m pulling rank.”
Nathan didn’t even look up. “You don’t have rank.”
“I do now. I’m boyfriend class. Top tier.”
“Oh my God,” Nathan groaned. “Leila should dump you just for saying that.”
I smothered a laugh with my hand.
Paul didn’t miss a beat. “Bold words from a bronze DPS main.”
Nathan gasped. “Take that back.”
Paul leaned forward, all mock seriousness. “Make me.”
They both erupted into another round of yelling as the match restarted, their characters sprinting down King’s Row.
And I just stood there, watching them.
Paul had no idea he was being watched, but this version of him—loose, snarky, laughing like a teenager—was so far from the cold operator I first brought home it felt like I was seeing someone new. Or maybe someone he used to be.
And Nathan?
I hadn’t seen him that light in ages. Not guarded. Not careful. Just himself.
Our conversation could wait.
They were bonding.
And I didn’t want to be the one who interrupted that.
