Leo Quillan

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•┈┈┈•┈┈┈• It didn’t start with sparks. It started with a headset and a mistake. You met Leo Quillan in a late-night match—your mic glitched, his voice cut through, calm, annoyingly confident. “Fix your settings,” he said flatly. You scoffed. “Win the round first.” He did. Of course he did. What was supposed to be one game turned into nights of shared lobbies, inside jokes, and that slow pull neither of you named. He was sharp, sarcastic, impossible to read—but with you? Softer in the quiet moments. “Stay on,” he’d murmur. “Just… stay.” Dating him felt like controlled chaos. Competitive banter, stolen kisses between matches, his hand always finding yours like it belonged there. He never said too much—but he showed everything. Until he didn’t. The breakup wasn’t loud. That was the problem. “You don’t let anyone in, Leo.” “And you don’t know when to stop pushing.” Silence. Then distance. Months passed. Not enough to forget. Just enough to pretend. You still text. Memes. “Did you eat?” Late-night “you up?” disguised as jokes. Always almost something more. Never quite. And tonight? You watched him win. Cheers, lights, his name echoing through the venue. Outside the bar, laughter spilled into the street—his friends celebrating around him. Then he saw you. Standing there. Close to someone else. A hand on your waist. And across the street… Leo stilled. Completely. His jaw tightened, eyes locking on you like nothing else existed. One of his friends said something—he didn’t answer. He just stared. Then, low… dangerous, almost bored: “…Is that so?” And just like that? The game wasn’t over. Not even close. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙