Lyra was determined. She was not going to let Alayah's endless teasing get under her skin—not the taunts, not the smug "princess," and definitely not the way Alayah sprawled across the battered couch as if she owned the place and everyone in it.
Lyra told herself she was here for one reason only: to even the score, to thank her rival and move on, clean and simple.
But "clean and simple" went out the window the moment Alayah scooted closer, reaching across Lyra's lap to adjust the controller in her hands.
"No, not like that," Alayah murmured, her voice warm at Lyra's ear, half-mocking and half-instructive.
"Thumb here—yeah, grip it, not like it's a kitten about to run away. Firm. Like this." She wrapped her hand over Lyra's, guiding her fingers to the right trigger.
Lyra's pulse jumped. She forced herself to focus on the buttons and the screen—her avatar ducking behind cover, the world rendered in digital grit and color.
Still, Alayah's touch lingered, skin against skin, her body heat seeping through the thin fabric of Lyra's borrowed T-shirt. The couch suddenly felt a whole lot smaller.
"Now, flick the stick—here," Alayah said, reaching over again, their knees bumping. "If you want to strafe, you don't mash it, you feather it. Smooth."
Lyra pressed her lips together, refusing to give Alayah the satisfaction of seeing her blush. "I know how to be smooth," she shot back, voice a little too sharp.
Alayah just grinned, undeterred. "We'll see. Show me your best."
Game after game, Alayah's hands brushed Lyra's—helping her reload, guiding her through the jumbled HUD, explaining where to find the best loot and how to build a quick wall. Sometimes, when their hands touched, Alayah didn't move away right away.
Sometimes, she left her palm on Lyra's wrist for a second longer than necessary. Lyra could feel the spark between them, a low heat building just beneath her skin.
She tried to focus on the mechanics, but every brush of Alayah's fingers left her dizzy.
Her rival smelled faintly of pepper and woodsmoke and something sharper, not quite human—dangerous, magnetic. It was infuriating. It was distracting. And Lyra didn't want it to stop.
Their banter shifted, grew less hostile, more competitive in the way that mattered how many kills, who found the best loot, who made the fastest call.
Alayah didn't let up, but she started to laugh, really laugh, when Lyra got a kill or made a clever move. For the first time since their contest began, Lyra felt the edge of something like camaraderie, and it was…nice.
"Ready to try a team match?" Alayah asked, grinning wickedly. "Battle royal. Two demons, one hell of a field."
Lyra snorted. "If you lose, you have to buy lunch for a week."
"And if you lose?"
Lyra met her gaze, eyes cool and bright. "You teach me every trick you know."
Alayah's lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile. "Deal."
They queued up together, dropping into a massive digital map, docks, forests, glass towers. Their avatars spawned side by side, armored and armed to the teeth. The lobby count flashed: one hundred players. The clock started. The world shrank.
The opening was chaos, as always—gunfire, scrambling for weapons, loot boxes popping open like party favors. Alayah took the lead, barking orders with gleeful authority.
"Cover the stairwell!" she snapped, tossing Lyra a rifle.
Lyra did, holding her position, heart pounding, fingers working the controller faster and smoother with every passing minute.
She picked off a pair of attackers, then followed Alayah into a warehouse, ducking bullets and leaping through broken windows.
Alayah was everywhere, all at once: covering her back, throwing health kits, bantering over voice chat with the rest of the squad. The energy between them became electric, urgent, as if the digital warzone mirrored the real charge in the room.
When Alayah's avatar took a hit, Lyra was there, dragging her behind cover. When Lyra ran low on ammo, Alayah dropped her spare without a word.
"Not bad," Alayah called, voice low and rough, pride in her tone. "Told you you could do it."
"Just don't get killed," Lyra shot back, though her voice was shaking with adrenaline and something else.
The game narrowed. Twenty players left. Then ten. Then six. The zone shrank to a tight circle, the map a storm of fire and chaos.
Alayah was shot, pinned down behind a wall, and Lyra took the lead, her hands steady, mind clear as ice. She vaulted through a window, headshotting an enemy and turning just in time to take down another.
"Go, go, go!" Alayah shouted, excitement breaking through her usual calm.
Final circle. Lyra's health bar was low, but her ammo was good. She breathed deep, centering herself in the din of Alayah's encouragement. Two left—her and one last enemy. The storm was closing in.
Alayah leaned close, lips almost brushing Lyra's ear. "Now. You got this. You're the queen, right?"
Lyra grinned, heart thundering, and spun her avatar out of cover, firing three perfect shots.
Victory Royale flashed in gold across the screen.
The apartment erupted in noise Alayah whooping, Lyra almost dropping the controller, laughter bouncing off the cracked walls. Lyra turned, stunned and breathless. Alayah grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her up off the couch in a rough, delighted hug.
Their bodies collided, heat and sweat and the electric rush of victory, arms tight around each other.
Lyra barely had time to process the feeling—Alayah's heartbeat pounding, the way her hand fit at Lyra's waist, the slide of their bodies, real and undeniable—before the hug turned into something else. A question, a promise, a spark that refused to go out.