Page 48 of Daddy’s Naughty Gamer

His eyes stay on mine.

“You already proved it.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“You built the career,” he says it like a fact. “You earn money doing something exceptionally difficult. You compete internationally. You have teammates relying on you. Sponsors rely on you. Fans follow you.”

He pauses. “You’re done proving whether it counts.”

Something tightens in my throat. “But if I slow down⁠—”

“You recover.”

“If I say no⁠—”

“You set a boundary.”

“If I skip something⁠—”

“You make a professional decision.” He says each one calmly.

“You don’t know what this industry is like.” I tell him.

“No. But I know what happens when people confuse exhaustion with dedication.” Something in his face closes. The injury, the thing Rick wouldn’t tell me.

“You’ve done that,” I say. “Did it work?” I ask.

“No.” Immediate. That hits harder than anything else.

I look at him. Really look. I notice the scar near his temple, the slight stiffness in the way he sometimes stands, and the control that feels less like personality now and more like something built deliberately after chaos, brick by brick, until it could hold his weight.

“I don’t want you learning everything the hard way just because I did,” he says, and my chest aches for him

I don’t say anything. Instead, I reach across the table. My hand stops halfway. He looks at it and then at me.

I don’t know what I’m asking for. Touch, comfort, or permission? Maybe all of it. Christopher turns his hand palm-up. It’s an invitation, one I desperately wanted. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d rejected me.

My breath catches as I place my hand in his. His warm fingers close tightly around mine and all the noise in my head quiets. Not disappears; it’s not silent exactly. More like quieting the way a room goes still when someone finally turns down the music you didn’t realize was too loud.