Chapter 8
EIGHT
Lucas
Day five in Cedar Falls, and I was starting to forget what my apartment looked like.
Not that I was complaining. The farmhouse had become more home in less than a week than my studio had been in two years. Probably because this house came with Michelle, still skittish, still fighting her instincts, but noticeably less likely to flee when one of us entered a room.
Progress was progress, even when it was measured in millimeters.
"You're smiling at your screen again," Ro observed from his position behind the main camera. "The game hasn't even loaded yet."
"I'm thinking about good content," I lied.
"You're thinking about Michelle."
"That too."
Dex snorted from his tech station. His shoulder was properly bruised now, a spectacular purple-yellow that Michelle had fussed over this morning despite his protests. She'd made him ice it, brought him more of Bill's special tea, and generally hovered until he'd agreed to take it easy.
Pack behavior. She just didn't want to call it that yet.
"Stream setup looks good," Dex said, running final checks. "Audio's clean. Lighting's perfect. Ro's already got three angle options. We're ready when you are."
"Michelle still working?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"She's at the dining table," Ro confirmed. "Laptop open. Coffee going cold. Hasn't looked up in twenty minutes."
So normal Michelle behavior.
Except every so often, she'd glance toward the living room where I was setting up. Quick looks, like she was checking I was still there. Making sure I was okay.
Still fussing, just quietly.
My alpha purred with satisfaction.
"Going live in five," Dex announced. "Lucas, you're doing the cozy gaming session, building that gingerbread house expansion you've been planning. Chill stream, no pressure."
"Got it." I settled into my chair, pulling up the game. "Ready when you are."
"Three... two... one..."
The familiar rush of going live hit, thousands of viewers joining simultaneously, chat exploding with greetings, my community showing up like they always did.
"Hey, Cozy Crew!" I greeted, letting the warmth in my voice be genuine. "Welcome to Saturday evening vibes. We're in beautiful Cedar Falls still, and tonight we're expanding the gingerbread house. Lots of building, lots of planning, very chill."
The chat had been obsessed with Michelle since the troll incident two nights ago. Clips of her defending me had gone viral, currently sitting at 2.3 million views across platforms. My subscriber count had jumped twenty thousand. Brand deals were flooding in.
And Michelle was convinced it was going to ruin everything.
"Michelle's working," I said, keeping my tone light. "Like always. Best manager in the business, even on Saturday nights, she's making sure everything runs smoothly behind the scenes."
Which was true. She was working. But she was also listening, and I knew it.
I focused on the gingerbread house, placing walls and planning decorations with the kind of methodical detail my viewers loved. But part of my attention was on the dining room, on Michelle's presence just out of frame.
"Okay, needs good decorations now," I explained. "We want people to feel like they're seeing part of a winter wonderland, not just an isolated house. So we're creating these little clusters of decorations—"
The stream fell into a comfortable rhythm. I built, explained my choices, engaged with chat. Donations rolled in—mostly positive, supportive messages from regular viewers.
Then an anonymous donation came through with a message designed to sting: "Must be nice hiding in your manager's house instead of facing real life."
The words hit hard. Someone specifically trying to get under my skin about being here, about Michelle.
"I'm not hiding," I said, keeping my voice calm even though my chest was tightening. "I'm working. Creating content. Spending time with my team. That's not hiding, that's living."
Another donation: "Your 'team' or your girlfriend? Because it seems like you're using your manager for content clout."
The accusation that our connection was fake, that I was exploiting her for views, made my hands still on the keyboard.
"That's not—" I started, then stopped. How did I defend this without revealing too much? Without putting Michelle in an impossible position?
"Michelle is an incredible manager," I said carefully. "One of the best in the industry. I'm lucky to work with her. And yes, she's been gracious enough to let me and my team stay with her family while we create holiday content. That's not exploitation, that's collaboration."
Another cutting message came through, and the worst part was the tiny voice in my head that whispered, What if they're right?
"Lucas." Michelle's voice, sharp and clear from across the room. "Can you pause the stream for a second?"
I looked up to find her standing, laptop closed, moving toward me with purpose.
Oh no. This was it. She'd heard the accusations and realized—
She walked directly into frame.
On camera. In front of seventy thousand viewers.
Deliberately.
"Hi, chat," she said, her voice pleasant but with steel underneath. "Michelle here. Lucas's manager. And I have something to say."
The chat exploded with excitement and support.
"First," Michelle continued, "to the anonymous donor suggesting Lucas is using me, you're wrong.
Completely, categorically wrong. Lucas is one of the most genuine creators I've ever worked with.
He's here because his content is better when he's relaxed and happy.
He's here because my family offered hospitality. And he's here because I invited him."
Her hand landed on my shoulder, the same gesture from two nights ago, grounding and possessive and completely intentional. It was still just as awkward given that I was taller than her even when I was sitting on a stool at her family’s kitchen counter.
"Second," she continued, "suggesting that our professional relationship is somehow exploitative shows a fundamental misunderstanding of how creator management works.
I fight for all my clients. I defend all my clients.
And yes, Lucas and his team are currently guests in my family home, because good management means understanding that creators are human beings who need support, not just metrics to optimize. "
"And third," Michelle said, her voice softening slightly, "Lucas isn't hiding from 'real life.' He's living it. He's creating content he's proud of. He's building community. He's being authentic. And if you can't see the value in that, then maybe you're not part of this community."
She looked down at me, and something in her expression made my heart stutter.
"You okay?" she asked quietly, just for me.
"Yeah," I managed. "I am now."
She squeezed my shoulder once more, then straightened. "Chat, be kind to each other. Lucas, sorry for interrupting your stream. I'll let you get back to building."
She started to move away, but I caught her hand.
"Stay?" I asked. "If you want. No pressure. But... stay?"
In front of seventy thousand viewers, Michelle looked at our joined hands, then at me, then seemed to make a decision.
"Okay," she said. "But I'm sitting at end of the counter. I still have actual work to do."
"Deal."
She brought her laptop over and hopped up on a stool at the end of the counter, just like she said she would. She was close enough to be in frame if she wanted, far enough to maintain some professional distance, and reopened her laptop.
But she was there. In my space. Choosing to stay.
The chat celebrated wildly, and I tried to refocus on the game with Michelle sitting three feet away.
"Okay," I said, trying to gather my thoughts. "Where were we? The logs for the fireplace, right."
But my hands were shaking slightly, and my chest was tight with emotion.
She'd done it again. Jumped to my defense. Put herself on camera, made herself vulnerable, revealed that I mattered to her.
And this time, she'd stayed.
The next hour was simultaneously the best and most challenging stream I'd ever done.
Best because Michelle was there, working on her laptop, occasionally commenting on chat, existing in my space like it was natural.
Challenging because I was hyperaware of her every movement, every glance, every tiny smile.
"The candy cane cluster needs something in the center," I explained. "Somewhere for the eye to go. You know, I’m starting to think of this as not a gingerbread house, but a gingerbread community center. We’re building this together as a community, and community means connecting to one another. Connection is important."
"Backed by research," Michelle added without looking up. "Community spaces in residential areas increase happiness metrics in simulation games by an average of 23%."
"See?" I said, grinning. "This is why Michelle's the best. Stats for everything."
"It's literally my job to know metrics."
"It's hot that you know metrics."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Michelle's head snapped up, eyes wide. The chat went absolutely feral.
"I meant—" I scrambled, "—in a professional way. Professional appreciation for statistical knowledge."
"Lucas." Michelle was trying not to smile. "Stop talking."
"Stopping talking now."
But Michelle was smiling. Actually smiling, not trying to hide it.
We continued with Michelle providing occasional commentary, dry observations, statistical data, efficient responses to chat questions. She was brilliant and herself.
And chat loved her.
When I finally wrapped up the stream, thanking viewers and ending the broadcast, the three of us sat in the sudden quiet of the living room.
"That was progress," Ro said, smiling. "Michelle stayed on camera for an hour. Defended you again."
"And flirted," Dex added. "She definitely flirted."
"I was teasing," Michelle protested. "Not flirting."
"You laughed at his jokes. You smiled when he called your metrics knowledge hot. You stayed in frame." Dex's expression was gentle. "That was flirting."
Michelle looked overwhelmed, grabbed her laptop, and fled upstairs to process.
The three of us watched her go.
"She stayed for an hour," Ro repeated.
"Because she cares," I said quietly.
Later that night, I couldn't sleep. I heard footsteps going downstairs, Michelle, stress-baking at midnight.
I found her in the kitchen, pulling out supplies.
"Can't sleep either?" I asked.
She smiled. "Apparently not. Want to help?"
"Yeah."
We made cookies together in comfortable silence, and when they were in the oven, Michelle sat on the counter.
"Thank you," she said. "For understanding why I'm terrified."
"Thank you for not running away. For making cookies with me instead of hiding."
When her head eventually drooped onto my shoulder—exhausted—I let her rest there.
One moment at a time.
One day at a time.
We'd get there.