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Once we’re home, Kain moves through the kitchen, dumping a bag of popcorn into a bowl before he grabs a couple of cans of Respawn Glacial Blue from the fridge.

“I need to get back to work on the archive cleanup,” he says, not looking at where I stand by the couch, unsure of what to do with myself. “You can hang out in the living room if you want. Or come downstairs.”

I don’t answer, but my feet carry me after him down the basement stairs, my sock-covered toes curling with every step.

In the basement office, Kain drops into his chair, and I climb into his lap, settling back into the solid warmth of his chest.

His arm comes around my waist as he shakes his mouse to wake up his screen, and blue light washes over both of us.

I lift the handheld device next to his keyboard and open my farming game. The pixelated field loads, my crops half-grown, and a dozen neighbor notifications stacked in the corner. I ignore them, the device idle in my hands.

My eyes drift left.

Kain’s monitor shows his downloaded Lantern Key archive, arranged in the same directory tree the studio uses. His fingers move across the keyboard. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

Kain reaches for the popcorn bowl, his fingers finding a kernel, and brings it to my lips, waiting until I open for him.

As I chew, the crunch fills the quiet room.

He feeds me another. And another. Kain doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it while he focuses on work, scrolling through directories.

The next time he lifts a kernel, my lips open without prompting, salt and butter melting on my tongue.

Kain’s scrolling slows, and he clicks on a folder labeled “DELETED_THREADS”, and the screen populates with text files, each one a conversation that users deleted but the server kept.

I shift in his lap. “Is that okay to look at? Those are private.”

“They were public posts,” Kain says. “Deleting them from the forum didn't erase them from the server archive. We're consolidating historical data, not reinstating them for everyone to see.”

As he keeps scrolling, the threads fill the screen. User arguments about class balance. Complaints about difficulty spikes. A three-page debate about whether the Sentinel’s declaration mechanic is too slow.

The stone in my chest shifts, not gone, but lighter, and I sink deeper into Kain’s hold. I grab my own handful of popcorn. The salt hits my tongue, and my stomach grumbles. I’m hungry.

I shove more popcorn into my mouth and lean forward, reading the message threads.

user_SentinelFan47 >> the sentinel class is broken, the declaration takes too long, and the bartender dialogue is repetitive.

My brow furrows. “That’s not true. The declaration is the whole point.”

Kain’s typing doesn’t stop.

user_DuskHater22 >> the ember district is boring, just fetch quests and a Bartender who won’t shut up.

“It’s not fetch quests.” I hook my feet around Kain’s calves as I straighten on his lap. “The Bartender is giving you context for the district’s politics. The fetch quests are cover for intelligence gathering. The game tells you this in the tutorial if you actually read it.”

Kain tries to tug me back into position, but another message catches my eye, and I lean closer to the monitor instead.

user_YourMomLovesMeMore >> sentinels are just alphas with extra steps, change my mind.

“That’s not what a Sentinel is!” I vibrate with indignation. “These people are idiots. The Sentinel isn’t about dominance, it’s about service. The declaration⁠—”

“Bunny.” Kain’s hand stills on the keyboard. “I can’t work if you keep talking, and you’re blocking my screen. Find something to distract yourself.”

I’m about to sink back into his hold when Kain’s phone buzzes on the desk, the screen illuminating with an incoming call.

Julian.

I go still in Kain’s lap.