Chapter Text
Andrew Kreiss’s alarm always rang at 6:15 a.m. sharp.
Not because he needed the extra fifteen minutes before work — but because he liked to drink his coffee in silence before the rest of the city woke.
His mornings were methodical. Grind beans. Boil water. Two sugar cubes, exactly. Sit at the small kitchen table in his dimly lit apartment, letting the bitter heat roll over his tongue. The warmth grounded him, the quiet gave him a head start on the day.
By 8:00, he was in the sleek glass building downtown, blending into the polite anonymity of corporate life. His dark suit was always pressed, his hair combed back neatly, and his voice — deep, deliberate, measured — was only used when necessary.
Co-workers knew him as dependable. Calm. The type who remembered birthdays but never talked much about his own life. To them, he was simply Andrew — polite nod, quick handshake, no drama.
What they didn’t know was that the very same man went home at night, loosened his tie, and became A.K. North — a secret novelist whose works filled the pages of some of the most popular mature M/M romances in niche online circles.
His books weren’t smut for smut’s sake. They were slow burns that made readers ache. He wrote glances that carried more weight than kisses, and when the touches finally happened, they were the kind that made your lungs forget how to work.
His readers didn’t know what he looked like. He liked it that way. The mystery gave him freedom — and safety.
Across the city, Victor Grantz’s alarm was the sun. The moment its warmth slipped through his blinds, he was already sitting up, stretching, messy hair falling in his eyes.
His mornings weren’t neat like Andrew’s. Breakfast was usually something grabbed from the corner bakery, eaten one-handed as he unlocked his bike. The city blurred by him in flashes of morning air, traffic hum, and snippets of overheard conversations from sidewalks.
His courier job was fast-paced — in and out of buildings, quick deliveries, polite smiles that occasionally turned into cheeky jokes when the recipient seemed friendly enough. Victor was good at this; people liked him without much effort on his part.
By the time evening came, his delivery bag was tossed aside, and he was in his small but cozy apartment — lights dimmed, headset on, monitor glowing.
The game he’d been hooked on lately was Crush Party, a colorful, chaotic co-op game that paired two players to complete absurd challenges. Sometimes the goal was to outmaneuver rival teams. Sometimes it was to keep your partner alive through sheer chaos.
Victor played to win, but more importantly, he played for the banter. He was a natural at bratty commentary — not cruel, just sharp enough to keep people laughing or rolling their eyes.
Thursday nights were Victor’s favorite for gaming.
The city outside was winding down, delivery work was done, and the only thing on his to-do list was a cold can of soda and a glowing monitor.
His apartment wasn’t fancy — a one-bedroom tucked above a small print shop — but it had just enough space for a desk pushed against the wall, two monitors, and a cluttered shelf of figures from games he’d half-finished. The hum of his PC filled the room like a familiar purr as he slid into his chair, headset settling over his messy hair.
He cracked the soda, took a long sip, and queued into Crush Party.
The game’s pairing system spun through its little animation, an exaggerated roulette wheel of usernames until finally — "Partner Found — Username: ArkRaven" — popped up in bright letters across the screen.
Victor raised a brow. He didn’t recognize the name from his usual late-night player pool. The avatar appeared on his screen: black-and-gold armor, clean lines, no unnecessary decals or joke accessories. It wasn’t the gaudy “look at me” style he saw on most players — it was minimal, calculated.
The match countdown began, and Victor leaned back in his chair, already grinning.
Victor (V): “Nice armor. What, win a catalog shoot or something?”
There was a pause. Then a voice came through his headset. Low. Smooth. Calm.
ArkRaven (A): “…No.”
It was a single syllable, but the delivery was unhurried, as if the man on the other end could take his time with every word.
V: “You sound like you’ve got a mortgage.”
A: “…And you can tell that from a jump animation?”
V: “Mortgage jump. Responsible jump. Probably iron your socks too.”
A beat of silence — and then it happened. A chuckle, low and warm, slid through Victor’s headphones. It wasn’t forced, not the polite kind people gave to strangers. It had weight, the kind of laugh you could lean into.
Victor felt it settle in his chest, a little unexpected spark.
The map loaded in — bright candy-colored chaos — and they dropped into the first challenge. Victor darted forward immediately, but out of the corner of his screen, he noticed ArkRaven wasn’t rushing like the rest. Every move was measured, precise. He didn’t scramble when an obstacle appeared; he shifted around it like he’d known it was coming.
When Victor made a risky jump that left him dangling from a ledge, ArkRaven doubled back without hesitation to pull him up. No lecture, no sigh — just a steady,
"Got you."
Victor raised his brows behind the screen. Most random partners would have left him hanging and gone for the points.
Midway through the match, Victor started testing him — taking deliberately bad angles, baiting enemies into their path, throwing in cheeky comments just to see if ArkRaven would bite.
V: “Careful, old man, don’t throw your back out carrying me.”
A: “…You’re not that heavy.”
The smoothness of the reply, paired with that slight pause before it, made Victor’s grin widen.
By the final round, they were in sync in a way Victor didn’t expect for a first-time duo. He’d move left; ArkRaven would already be covering his blind spot. Victor would dash ahead; ArkRaven would hang back just enough to intercept a sneak attack.
When the Victory! banner flashed across the screen, Victor leaned into his mic.
V: “Not bad, old man.”
A: “Not bad, kid.”
The banter felt like it could’ve kept going all night.
And it did.
Instead of logging off like most strangers, ArkRaven queued up another round. Then another. By the third game, they were trading stories in between objectives — Victor talking about the nightmare of traffic in the city, ArkRaven giving vague but oddly charming anecdotes about coworkers and terrible coffee.
Victor didn’t know it yet, but that voice — calm, low, with a subtle edge of amusement — would start to feel like part of his nightly routine.
The second night after their first match, Victor logged in expecting to bounce between random partners again.
But there it was — ArkRaven’s username — already lit green in the lobby.
He didn’t know why it made him sit a little straighter in his chair, or why his fingers were already moving to send a quick invite before he could think about it.
The connection beeped, and that familiar calm voice slid through his headset.
ArkRaven (A): “Evening.”
Victor (V): “Look who’s here. Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”
A: “…Or you couldn’t stay away from me.”
Victor huffed a laugh, leaning back in his chair. Smooth bastard.
Early Games
At first, they stuck to game talk — light banter between obstacles, coordinated moves when things got tricky. But something about ArkRaven’s timing in conversation was addictive. He never rushed to fill silence, never overexplained. He’d let a beat pass before replying, like each word was weighed in his mind before being released.
Victor noticed he liked that. The pauses made you listen harder, made you want to pull more out of him.
He tried to pry little details here and there.
V: “So, what’s your deal? Day job? Secret agent? Mob boss?”
A: “…Something like that.”
V: “You’re not denying it. Should I be worried?”
A: “Not unless you give me a reason.”
Victor bit back a smirk. The man could turn anything into a tease without raising his voice.
Outside the Game
By the end of the first week, their conversations had begun spilling past the matches themselves. They’d finish a game, and instead of saying goodbye, they’d sit in the empty lobby just… talking.
It wasn’t deep confessions — not yet — but little threads of daily life. Victor would complain about the bakery selling out of his favorite croissants by the time his delivery shift ended. ArkRaven would mention the slow death of the office printer and how no one dared touch it.
One night, ArkRaven mentioned he liked cooking but rarely had the time.
V: “Cooking? Like, serious cooking or microwave cooking?”
A: “Serious. I like to take my time with it.”
V: “…Figures. Bet you’d make it dramatic too. Knife work and low lighting and all that.”
A: “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Victor laughed — a quick, bright sound that made something warm settle in Andrew’s chest on the other end of the call.
It was Victor who broke the boundary first.
Late one night, after they’d been on for hours, he sent ArkRaven a meme through the game’s private chat — something stupid about “partner who carries the team.” It was harmless, but it was outside the game’s formal voice channel.
The next day, ArkRaven replied — not with a meme, but with a single, dry text: You’re lucky I don’t deduct points for recklessness.
Victor sent back “Daddy’s mad 😏” before thinking, and instantly regretted it… until ArkRaven replied,
Careful. You don’t want to see what happens when I am.
Victor had to shove his headset off for a second just to groan into his hands. Oh, he’s dangerous.
The Late Nights
What started as an hour or two of matches turned into four… five… six. More than once, Victor realized it was nearly sunrise by the time they finally said goodnight.
It wasn’t like with other players, where silence was awkward or filler talk was forced. With ArkRaven, silences felt deliberate, and when they did speak, there was a sense of precision in each exchange.
Victor began looking forward to it in a way that made him a little nervous. He’d catch himself glancing at the clock during his courier runs, thinking, Just a few more hours, then we can play.
About two weeks in, something small but noticeable changed. ArkRaven began to throw subtle jabs back at Victor — not just reacting to his teasing, but initiating it.
During one particularly chaotic match, Victor barely managed to dodge a trap and muttered, “That was close—”
A: “You wouldn’t have made it without me.”
V: “Cocky much?”
A: “Confident. There’s a difference.”
Victor rolled his eyes — grinning the whole time — and shot back, “Confident people don’t iron their socks.”
ArkRaven’s quiet laugh came through, low and short, and it hit Victor in the chest the way it had the very first night.
By now, the routine was set: Victor would log in at night, ArkRaven would already be there, and the world would narrow down to just their voices, their banter, and the flicker of movement on the screen.
Neither of them said it out loud, but they both knew — this wasn’t just a random match anymore.
Victor’s Friday morning started like most — late breakfast from the bakery (almond croissant today, thank God), coffee he drank too quickly, and a courier route stacked high enough to keep him pedaling across half the city.
The early summer heat clung to the air even before noon. The wind whipped past him as he wove between cars, the smell of bread from the bakery district giving way to exhaust and the metallic tang of the business quarter.
By midday, he’d already knocked out eight deliveries. His phone pinged with the next job:
Package: Luxury Stationery Set — Address: Clearwater Heights, Unit 1003 — Recipient: Andrew K.
Clearwater Heights was one of those places — not quite gated, but close enough. The streets were wide and quiet, lined with expensive cars that looked like they’d never seen a scratch.
The building loomed tall, all pale stone and glass, the kind of architecture that whispered, you can’t afford to stand here too long. Victor propped his bike near the entrance and took the package from his bag. It was a rectangular box, heavier than it looked, wrapped in crisp brown paper with a label printed in elegant serif font.
He hit the buzzer. A soft chime echoed from inside before the lock clicked. The lobby smelled faintly of lemon polish, with plush chairs that looked too expensive to actually sit on.
The elevator ride was smooth, almost silent, and when the doors slid open on the tenth floor, the hallway was so still that Victor could hear the faint hum of air-conditioning.
He found 1003 and knocked.
The door opened — slowly, but without hesitation — and the man on the other side was…
Tall. Lean. Dressed in loose grey sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt, both just slightly rumpled, as if he’d been working from home and hadn’t expected company. His hair was dark and swept back imperfectly, a few strands falling forward. Square-framed glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, catching the hallway light.
But it wasn’t any of that that caught Victor off-guard. It was the man’s presence — steady, composed, almost quiet in a way that filled the space between them.
Victor’s grin came instinctively, practiced from hundreds of deliveries. “Package delivery,” he said brightly, holding it out.
The man took it with long, deliberate fingers, his gaze dropping briefly to the label before returning to Victor’s face. Pale eyes — cool, assessing — lingered on him a beat longer than most customers’ did. Not suspicious, not unfriendly… just looking.
“Thanks,” he said simply, his voice low and even.
Victor’s smile faltered just slightly — not from discomfort, but from the way the single word resonated through the quiet hallway. Something about the tone tugged at his memory, but he pushed it aside.
“No problem,” he replied, giving a casual nod before turning toward the elevator.
In the brief walk back to his bike, Victor found himself replaying the interaction. There was nothing unusual about it on paper — just another delivery, another customer — but he couldn’t shake the impression left behind.
The man’s voice had the same calm, deliberate weight as…
No. It couldn’t be.
Victor shook the thought off and pushed away from the curb. He had more stops to make.
By the time Victor got home that evening, the sky had already shifted into a deep blue, the last streaks of gold fading at the horizon.
He dropped his courier bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and let himself collapse into his desk chair.
The glow from his monitor was familiar and comforting — the one constant in his nights for the past couple of weeks.
His fingers hovered over the mouse for a moment before clicking open Crush Party.
As the game loaded, his gaze flicked to the friends list.
ArkRaven — Online.
Right on cue.
The First Words
Victor sent the invite without hesitation. The connection tone buzzed, then that voice — low, even, unhurried — slid into his headset.
ArkRaven (A): “Evening.”
Victor (V): “Hey, stranger. Been holding the lobby for me?”
A: “You’re late.”
V: “What, were you counting the minutes?”
A: “Maybe.”
Victor chuckled, leaning back in his chair. Normally, ArkRaven’s calm tone was like cool water — steady, grounding — but tonight, there was something else. A faint warmth hiding under the evenness.
They queued up for a match, and Victor kept the conversation light at first. He recapped a ridiculous delivery from earlier — some old lady who had made him wait while she found the exact change down to the last cent. Andrew gave the occasional amused hum, but didn’t bite on his usual back-and-forth.
Then, during a loading screen, ArkRaven spoke again.
A: “I saw someone interesting today.”
Victor’s ears perked. “Oh? A mysterious office romance?”
A: “Not quite. Delivery guy. Came to drop off something I’d ordered.”
Victor grinned automatically. “What, was he hot or something?”
A: “…Yes.”
The bluntness made Victor pause. ArkRaven wasn’t usually that direct.
V: “Oh-ho. You’re blushing right now, aren’t you?”
A: “Unlikely.”
V: “C’mon, give me the details. What’s your type?”
There was the smallest pause before ArkRaven replied, almost like he was picturing it again.
A: “Bright. The kind of smile you notice before you notice anything else. Confident, but not… fake. Bit of mischief in the eyes.”
Victor’s stomach did an odd little flip.
He forced a laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like you’ve been reading too many romance novels, dude.”
A: “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just been reminded of my type.”
For the next few minutes, Victor played as normal — at least on the outside. Inside, his mind was running in circles.
The description was too close.
The timing was too close.
His memory flickered back to the man at the apartment door earlier: tall, lean, dark hair, glasses, that steady way of looking at him.
The kind of voice that stayed in your head.
…No. No way. It was coincidence.
If Andrew noticed Victor’s slight distraction, he didn’t comment. Instead, during a quiet stretch between matches, he spoke again.
A: “Your turn.”
V: “My turn for what?”
A: “What’s your type?”
Victor smirked into the mic. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
A: “I would. Humor me.”
Victor tilted his head, letting his voice slip into a teasing drawl. “Tall, maybe. Knows how to shut me up without saying much. Someone who… has layers, you know? Looks calm, but there’s something else under it.”
There was a pause — just long enough to make Victor wonder if he’d gone too far — before ArkRaven let out a quiet, almost amused hum.
A: “Sounds like you’ve been reading too many romance novels.”
Victor laughed, shaking his head. Touché.
A few matches later, Victor decided to test the waters.
V: “Oh, speaking of novels — I’ve been binging this one lately. Pretty… mature stuff, but really well-written. About these two guys who…”
He went on to give a vague but glowing description of one of Andrew’s own works — not naming it outright, but hitting enough unique points that any dedicated fan would recognize it.
He expected a joke, maybe a quip about his taste.
Instead, ArkRaven was silent for two beats too long before replying.
A: “Sounds like you’re into the author more than the story.”
Victor grinned. “What, you jealous?”
A: “Should I be?”
The words landed heavier than they should have, and Victor had to look away from the screen for a second.
They played until late — later than usual — and when they finally signed off, Victor sat in the glow of his monitor for a while, headset still on, staring at nothing.
He didn’t have proof. Not yet.
But he was starting to think his favorite gaming partner and the man who’d opened the door that afternoon might be the same person.
And that… was dangerous territory.
The next morning, Victor was useless at pretending he wasn’t distracted.
His first coffee went cold before he even remembered to drink it. His phone buzzed twice with work notifications, and he had to reread them both because his brain kept looping back to last night.
Andrew’s voice.
The way it had gone soft — not warm exactly, but personal — when he’d described the delivery guy.
The fact that the description was almost uncomfortably close to… well, him.
And then there was the pause. That fraction of a second between Victor describing his “type” and Andrew’s amused hum. The kind of pause where you could practically hear someone deciding how much to give away.
Victor’s Memory Replay
By the time Victor was halfway through his delivery route, he’d already replayed yesterday’s apartment scene at least a dozen times.
He remembered the smooth, deliberate way Andrew had opened the door. The sharp, quiet focus in those pale eyes. The voice that slid out in that calm, steady tone.
He tried to convince himself it was just a coincidence.
Plenty of tall guys in glasses existed. Plenty of people had that low, collected voice.
And it wasn’t like Andrew had given his real name in-game. ArkRaven could’ve been anyone.
But every time Victor thought about the way Andrew had said “Thanks” in the doorway, and then the way ArkRaven had said “Evening” a few hours later, the voices aligned in his head like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
Andrew’s Morning
Meanwhile, in Clearwater Heights, Andrew was staring at the unopened box of luxury stationery on his desk — the one Victor had delivered.
He’d recognized Victor instantly yesterday.
Not from real life — they’d never met before — but from the feeling.
The way Victor smiled when he spoke. Bright, a little cocky, like every word was meant to hook your attention. And the eyes — that glint of teasing energy that made you think he could ruin your composure if you let him.
Exactly the way Andrew had always imagined the character “SunChaser” from Crush Party might look in person.
And the moment Victor had walked away, Andrew had known with a dangerous certainty: it was him.
Neither of Them Saying It
That night, Victor logged in early, hoping to catch Andrew off-guard — maybe get a hint in his voice before he could mask it.
Sure enough, ArkRaven popped online a few minutes later.
V: “You’re early. Missed me?”
A: “Someone’s confident today.”
V: “Confident’s just another word for correct.”
Andrew chuckled — a soft, almost indulgent sound — and Victor’s fingers tightened slightly on his mouse. That laugh was exactly the one he’d heard in his head all morning.
As they queued up for matches, Victor decided to push. Not outright accuse — no, too obvious — but prod.
V: “So, this delivery guy you were talking about yesterday… you see him again?”
A: “Not yet.”
V: “Gonna ask him out when you do?”
There was a slight pause, barely noticeable unless you were listening for it.
A: “Maybe. If I thought he’d say yes.”
Victor leaned back, smirking at his screen. “Sounds like you’re already halfway in love with the guy.”
A: “Sounds like you’re fishing for something.”
Touché.
Andrew’s Counterplay
Andrew wasn’t oblivious to Victor’s probing. In fact, he found it entertaining — like playing chess against someone who didn’t realize the other player was two moves ahead.
If Victor was really the man from yesterday, Andrew didn’t just want to confirm it. He wanted to see how far Victor would go to try and corner him into saying it first.
During the next match, between bursts of coordinated attacks, Andrew slipped in his own tests.
A: “Had a delivery yesterday. Courier had a decent bike — not your average beat-up thing. Black frame, gold accents.”
Victor’s fingers froze on the keys for a fraction of a second before he forced out a casual, “Sounds fancy.”
A: “And the guy was quick. Efficient. Guess that’s why he can afford to be cocky.”
Victor couldn’t help laughing — partly from nerves, partly from the fact that Andrew’s version of “teasing” was so dry it was almost sharp. “You’ve got a thing for couriers now?”
A: “Maybe just one.”
Later that night, they were in the middle of a slower match, camping near an objective. The game’s ambient sounds faded into the background as the conversation shifted again.
V: “You ever wonder what your game friends look like in real life?”
A: “Not really. I already have a pretty good picture of you.”
Victor grinned. “Oh yeah? Describe it.”
A: “…You’d rather I didn’t.”
Victor’s pulse kicked up. That wasn’t a no. That was a you already know.
But he let it slide — for now. If he kept pushing, he might ruin the fun.
When they finally signed off, neither of them had said anything directly.
But the air between them felt thicker now — less like friendly banter and more like two people circling a truth they both knew, each waiting for the other to take the first step.
Victor lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, replaying the exchanges.
Andrew sat at his desk, fingertips brushing the edge of the unopened stationery box, thinking about the way Victor’s voice had caught once or twice.
Both of them knew.
Neither was ready to say it.
Not yet.