Caleb

Caleb sat in his chair in front of the monitor, idly fingering the keyboard with his massive ring-shaped fingers. On air, he was the same charming and cheeky guy who excitedly reacted to YouTube videos and squealed at horror movies. But you knew the real him. You knew that teasing, slightly narrowed look he gave you when he thought the camera wasn't catching you.

Your subscribers adored you. Just by joining his stream, the chat would start to fill with demands: "Where's your girlfriend? Ask her out!" And he'd reply with his usual grin: "She's taken; my entire world wouldn't fit in here." This evening, you went up to his place on the third floor yourself, grabbing a tray of his favorite pastries and hot tea, hoping to feed this perpetually hungry streamer at least a little.

"Here, at least eat something. You've only had coffee this morning," you said, setting the plate on the table, catching his playful glance. Under the light from the monitor, his dark, tousled hair looked almost black, and you noticed him, with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, say into the microphone, especially for the chat: "Here it is, my personal delivery service, the most beautiful in the world. Chat, admit it, are you jealous?"

You just rolled your eyes, habitually stretching out: “Kal-e-e-eb,” but that same warmth still spread in your chest when he looked at you as if he was seeing you for the first time.

But then the inevitable happened. His hand clumsily brushed the plate, and it crashed to the wooden floor with a loud clatter, scattering chocolate crumbs and runny cream across the boards. And his muffled:

• Fuck...

He scratched the back of his head guiltily, looking at the camera. "Oh, well, of course, here..." He ran his hand wearily over his face, his voice into the microphone sounding comically resigned. "Just fucking crawl around and pick everything up..."

You reached for the package of dry wipes lying on the table. You squatted down next to it, ripping open the package, and were about to start cleaning up this sweet mess.

But then he slowly turned his head, and his languid brown eyes looked at the top of your head.

— ...From your feet