I laugh, shaking my head. “Yes, you’re adopting him, now go be nice.” I glance over, and sure enough, Tate is watching me from his own setup, one arm draped lazily over his desk, amusement flickering in his eyes as he listens to me try to wrangle my chat.

“Interesting approach,” he says as he tilts his head.

I quirk a brow. “What, you expected me to just let them lose their minds?”

“No, I expected you to let them keep talking about you being here with me.” I narrow my eyes, but before I can respond, he moves. With one fluid motion, he reaches for a mask, a ghost face. He slips it on, adjusting it until it fits just right, and then he turns back to his camera, his expression unreadable beneath it. And the second his chat sees, they go ballistic.

Tate taps his mic, exhaling like he’s preparing for war. “Alright, assholes, listen up. My brother is finally growing a pair and streaming for the first time, so if you know what’s good for you, you’re gonna go show him some fucking love.”

His chat loses it again, messages flying at a speed I can barely register.

Tate leans back, satisfied, his gaze flicking to me again as he nods toward the screen. “There. Now it’s official.”

I exhale, shaking my head, glancing at my own chat, which is still spamming theories and inside jokes at a speed that makes my head spin. I wrap up my stream, thanking everyone for showing Carter some love, watching as my chat finally starts to settle, well, as much as they ever do.

Tate’s chat, however? Still fucking unhinged. I lean back in the chair, stretching my arms above my head, before reaching for the headset to log off. “Alright, I’m out. Thanks for the assist, Tate.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge me at first, still focused on his own stream, fingers idly drumming against the desk, eyes locked on the rolling messages that are flooding his chat. “Yeah, yeah, sure,” he mutters, tone almost dismissive.

I roll my eyes, already pushing up from my seat, but the second I move he grabs me. One sharp tug and I’m not standing anymore. I’m in his lap. His hands firm on my waist, his body solid against mine, the heat of him pressing through my clothes like a fucking brand. My breath catches, and for a split second, there’s nothing but silence. And then, chaos. His chat fucking implodes.

My entire body locks up, and I feel Tate’s chest shake slightly beneath me as he exhales a slow, lazy laugh. “Damn,” he murmurs, voice low enough that only I can hear it. “I really do own the internet.”