Sweet Romance13 min read
My Rocket in His Live Stream
ButterPicks12 views
"Stop it, Leoni! You're ruining my stream," Cael barked at my door like it was a crime scene.
"I wasn't ruining it," I shouted back, hands still on the locked knob. "I was supporting you—honest! Husband!" I sang each syllable like a fool.
"Wait until I report you for disturbing the public order and have you arrested," he threatened, stepping closer so the wood of the door trembled.
"Try it. I'm a law-abiding citizen," I shot back, sticking my tongue out through the crack.
The phone buzzed on my bed like someone trying to start a drum solo. I grabbed it and froze.
"What's this? My DMs are on fire," I muttered as messages poured in.
"Is he dating the top donor?"
"Did I hear wrong? Cael has a woman at home?"
"Front row, please. The rocket sender is his wife???"
I threw the phone onto the quilt and slammed my palm against Cael's door. The door opened.
"What is wrong with you? Why didn't you stop your stream?" I demanded.
He looked at me the way he always did—calm, like a rock that had no business being molten.
"You're the one who kept shouting 'husband' in my chat," he said.
"No! I was just supporting you. I sent rockets, I wrote about your cases. You wouldn't have viewers without me!" I puffed my cheeks and delivered a weak kick at his shin.
"Fine. Fine. I'm the dog," he said with a half smile. "Are you happy?"
I made the mistake of attacking his smile with my eyes. He was ridiculous. He always was ridiculous and stubborn and impossible.
Then he did something worse. He picked me up—one quick movement—and tossed me onto his bed.
"Let me explain to your mother why she should be proud of me," he said, shutting his door like a judge dropping a gavel.
I lay there and felt my face flush. For half a second I could still feel his hands on my waist. His laugh echoed in my head like an unauthorized encore.
The night after that small war, I woke to a doorbell.
I yawned open the door and froze. A woman I did not know stood on Cael's threshold, in neat sportswear, bowl of steaming wontons in her hands.
"Hello. Is Cael here?" she said like the scene belonged to her.
"He just went out for his morning run," I answered, smoothing my hair. "You can leave it here if you want. I'll tell him."
She came inside like she had keys. "Oh, I'm Minerva," she said—no, she didn't. She said, "I'm Kaliyah Vitale." She smiled a smile I did not like.
"Nice to meet you, Kaliyah." I forced a smile while my insides tightened. "You brought him wontons? He'll love them."
"I bought them for Cael," she confirmed with a neat little nod. "I thought I'd surprise him."
"That's sweet." I picked up the bowl and tasted the broth. "Mmm. So good. Thank you."
She stiffened. "Excuse me, Leoni, but—this is his home. You shouldn't act like—"
"Like what? Like his roommate? He's my friend. He told me it's fine to eat anything here."
Kaliyah's face went a color I could not name. She glanced toward the door and stiffened again when Cael returned.
"Hey." He dropped his keys. "Kaliyah, it's not necessary to come by."
"I was just passing and I thought—" she said and added, "Is this the wife?"
"Not yet," I said at once, feeling my cheeks burn. "But soon."
Cael looked mildly interested and mildly annoyed. "I've told you I'm single."
She smiled an apologetic smile and left, but not before throwing a glance like a folded note into the space between us.
"You're too casual," Cael said later, nudging the plate toward me. "You can't just call me that on stream."
"Neither can you let other women come in and act like they own the place," I muttered with a mouth full of wonton.
"She's a colleague who brings breakfast sometimes," Cael said. "I told her not to."
"Sure," I said. "And I'm sure she sat there thinking about our wedding vows."
He rolled his eyes but reached out to take my hand. "You are ridiculous," he said, but he didn't pull away.
A few days later I went out with my friend Journi to drink a little, laugh a little, and forget the internet for a while. The club lights felt like an apology from the city. I expected the night to be dull and warm and forgettable.
Of course it wasn't.
He showed up—Dexter Aguilar—the boy who once tried to make the entire dorm into his romantic theater of roses and balloons. He was persistent enough to become a problem. He was handsome enough to be dangerous and hungry enough to be offensive.
"Leoni," Dexter slurred at the bar. "You came back."
"Yes," I said flatly. "Back in one piece."
"Why don't you give me a chance?" he said, voice thick with liquor. "You said no before, but—"
"I said no," I replied. "And I meant no."
He looked hurt and then angry, like a child who'd been told there were no more cookies.
"I wanted to be the one for you," he said. "Why him? Why Cael?"
"Because Cael is kind. He's a good man." I turned to find Cael at the doorway—he had come to check—and a light settled into the space like dawn.
"Calm down, Dex," I said. "You're drunk. Let me help you get a taxi."
"No," he insisted, and blocked my path. One moment we were breathing the same air; the next he pinned me against the wall.
"Do you like me?" he demanded.
"No," I said, and tried to move. "Let go."
Cael stepped in. "Dexter. Let her go."
Dexter's eyes flicked to him and darkened. "She belongs to no one."
"She belongs to herself," Cael said, and his voice was low and flat as a rule book.
They bundled Dexter into a cab. I sat down on the curb and let my knees cry for me. Cael crouched beside me, hands on his knees.
"What were you doing here?" I asked him.
"Watching out," he said. "I saw you at the bar and wanted to make sure you were safe."
"That's—" I couldn't finish the sentence. "Thank you."
Later, Cael hosted a livestream about safety and prevention. He spoke like he was reading a vow he had written to himself.
"Girls, this isn't your fault," he said to the camera. "Don't blame yourselves. And men, you owe the women you cross paths with protection, not predation."
I watched him, and my heart swung in me like a pendulum.
We texted later.
"Don't go out drinking alone," he wrote.
"I wasn't alone," I answered. "Journi and I were together."
"But you should be careful," he replied.
That weekend my mother called. "Bring Cael home. We want to meet him." There was an excitement in her voice like keys to a locked door.
"Mom," I said slowly. "What if he can't come?"
"Then come without him. But bring him next time. He is such a good boy."
So I did. I invited Cael to dinner. He arrived with a bag of food and an apologetic smile. He stayed and helped my family with the dishes like a man who had learned to be useful.
"You're like family," my mother said later. "If you make her happy, we'll be happy."
He took my hand and squeezed it under the table. "I'm trying."
"I know," I said, and the words felt true.
A week later, the kids from the precinct and I went out for late-night fried dumplings. I sat on the passenger seat while Cael drove. He had his colleagues in the back—the same people who teased us, the same people who had seen me on his livestream—Dylan and Ayane and others.
"Is she your fiancé then?" Dylan joked at us from the backseat.
"No," Cael said lightly. "Not yet."
"You should introduce us," Ayane urged.
"She's my childhood friend," Cael replied, and when he said "childhood," something warm widened in his face. The light from the street lamps carved his profile like a promise.
That night he dropped me at my apartment but didn't leave. He waited on the stoop like a faithful sentry. When a stranger pulled up in a black car and tried to follow me, a hand grabbed my arm.
"Who are you?" a voice slurred.
I shoved away and the man lunged for me. I pulled away and felt cold fear. The man was too close, too stupid, too sure.
"Leoni!" Cael's voice was thunder. He moved like a blur, disposed of the caller with a single forceful word. The man fled.
He took my arm and wrapped his jacket around my shoulders. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"I am now," I said, and meant it.
The livestream at the precinct a few nights later was packed. Cael spoke about how to be safe and how to respond. He looked at me when he spoke, and the camera held us both like evidence.
"Next time," he said softly, and I could hear the line of warning he had learned on the job. "Don't try to be brave alone."
I swallowed, and then texted him in the car ride home.
"Thanks," I wrote.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner," he answered. "I should have moved faster."
"Don't say that," I replied. "You were there."
We were still in the tender, clumsy phase of each other—where jokes turned to heartbeats and gestures into future charts.
A few days later, Cael surprised me in the small, perfect way he surprised me: at the old children's park where we had played as kids. He led me to the back of the slides and opened boxes full of small, meaningful things.
"This is for you," he said, putting a necklace around my neck. "I made this while you were abroad."
He knelt, held up a ring. "Will you marry me? Will you be my wife?"
I laughed, which turned into a sob. "Yes," I whispered. "Yes."
It was small and private and then suddenly not—family and friends poured in from behind the trees, clapping, cheering. My mother screamed a happy yelp; I saw Journi filming with a grin that could break glass.
We were engaged in the middle of squeaking swings and painted horses, and the sky felt like a blessing.
After that, the rumors did not stop. Kaliyah kept showing up with breakfasts and awkward smiles. Dexter's presence in the city and his attempts at forcing closeness did not evaporate overnight. The internet, cruel and thirsty, loved drama.
So I would say this now: when bad people come, they get worse if you leave them unaddressed. Cael had never been the loud type, but he had patience like a man building scaffolding—slow, steady, impossible to topple. When things piled up, he made a decision.
The community center held a live panel about preventing harassment and online safety. The room was packed—students, neighbors, local journalists, even a small camera crew who'd come to cover Cael's anti-fraud and safety work. I sat near the front, heart thudding like a prizefighter, hands clenched in my lap.
"Before we start," Cael said into the microphone, "I have something to clear up."
There was a murmur in the crowd. Kaliyah sat in the second row, a smile like varnish on her face. Dexter hovered near the door, too casual. Both of them thought of this as a chance to rehearse public charm.
"These last few weeks," Cael continued, "I've had a lot of messages about what happened in my stream. Someone accused Leoni of being my 'hidden wife' and tried to make me look like I was hiding a relationship."
Kaliyah shifted. She had posted on social media a photo of my back in the doorway, insinuating we were a secret couple. People had laughed and liked and commented. To many, this was gossip. To me, it was a smear.
"That accusation is false," Cael said. "We have always been friends. But that does not excuse manipulation."
He clicked a remote. The projector flickered to life with chat logs and messages—screenshots, timestamps, clear as noon. There were messages Kaliyah had sent to several of his colleagues and to a small local influencer. In one message she had written, "She is trying to claim him—I'll drop by with breakfast and make him miss me." Another message read, "If you post that she is the donor, they will think he's taken."
Kaliyah's face went hard. The room hummed.
"Why would you do that?" Cael asked quietly, looking directly at her.
"I—" she started. "I was being friendly."
"Friendship doesn't involve deliberate lies," he said. "You used the live chat to seed a rumor. You came to a private doorstep to provoke. You are not a bystander in this."
From the back, someone murmured, "That's not okay."
The crowd reaction was immediate. Phones were lifted. "What did you do that for?" an older woman asked. "Why ruin a pair like that?"
Kaliyah's smile cracked. She tried to laugh it off, but the auditorium felt like a courtroom.
"You came here to clean up your image," Cael said, voice steady. "But your private messages say otherwise."
She opened and closed her mouth. "I was trying to help him. I—"
"You were trying to position yourself," Cael interrupted. "And when that didn't work, you attacked someone else."
"That's not true," she blurted.
"But the messages are." He turned the slides again. There was a string of texts: "I'll come by," "Watch me get his attention," "Post that she's his wife." The words were ugly, like a smear.
Kaliyah's color left her face. The audience began to hiss softly, a city version of disapproval.
"You owe Leoni an apology," Cael said.
"I—" Kaliyah swallowed. "I'm sorry."
It was thin. It was public. People around us exchanged looks. A man in the back said, "It wasn't just mean—she tried to make herself look like the victim later." A woman clapped slowly in a sarcastic rhythm, and others joined, a wet applause that felt like rain on a parade.
Kaliyah's shoulders dropped. Her expression moved through states—defiant, then confused, then hurt, then hollow. She tried to insist she had been misread. "You're making this public—" she started.
"Yes," Cael said. "Because this is public behavior that affects people. Lies spread in public. We can call them out in public."
Her phone buzzed; someone was typing a message to her. The crowd took out their phones. My mother shouted, "That's how you treat a girl who shows up to your home?" and a few heads nodded.
Kaliyah tried to stand, to defend herself, and then sat down. The shame of being found out in a room full of strangers was visible as red spots across her neck. Her eyes darted, looking for someone to rescue her. No one moved.
That was Kaliyah's punishment: exposure. Her plan to play the victim died slowly in the bright light. She left with her face a mask, and in the weeks after, colleagues avoided her like glass in bare feet. Men whispered and thumbs swiped. Her social posts got fewer comments. People who once liked her photos started to unfriend her.
Then Cael turned to the other problem.
"There's another issue I need to address here tonight," he said. "Sexual harassment isn't always done by strangers. Sometimes it's done by acquaintances who refuse the word 'no.'"
Dexter flushed at the name. He started to laugh, at first nervously. "That's ridiculous," he said.
"Is it?" Cael asked. "Leoni, do you want to tell the room what happened that night?"
My voice trembled, but I spoke anyway. "He followed me home. He grabbed me. He wouldn't let go until—"
"—until I helped," I finished, because I wanted to show that there was help. I looked at Dexter. He looked like a man who had been cartooned—too big for his actions.
Cael played CCTV footage from the bar entrance: Dexter with a slurred grin, blocking my path, one hand on my wrist, his face too close. Then the cab footage: Dexter shoved into a taxi, eyes red, stumbling, his words thick.
The auditorium exploded into a cluster of sound. "That's him," someone said. "That's the troublemaker." Phones recorded, fingers typed, and in a city that feeds on scandal, this became a small avalanche.
Dexter's expression collapsed. He went from annoyed to shocked to dangerous in a heartbeat.
"No—" he said. "You can't—"
"I can," Cael said. "You're being recorded acknowledging your behavior. You're being reported tonight."
Dexter's mouth fell open, then he started to rant. "You're making a big deal out of nothing," he protested. "I didn't hurt her. She led me on—"
"She said no," I cut in, and the room hummed at the truth.
"People in the audience are witnesses," Cael said. "Some of them were at the bar that night. Others have accounts. This isn't a political smear. It's a report. It's a warning."
A woman in the audience stood up. "I saw him corner her," she said loudly. "He wouldn't leave."
A few heads nodded. "I called a cab," Journi said, and the truth settled like heavy dust.
Dexter's face went from red to gray. He tried to smile, to write it off as a misunderstanding, to say he'd had too much to drink. He shuffled out toward the door, but people surrounded him—neighbors who had been unkindly flirted with before, women who had their own stories. They spoke in whispers first, then louder.
"Why would you do that?" an old man asked. "What do you think you're doing to girls?"
"Leave him alone," Dexter snapped, but his voice trembled.
"You're drunk and you harass," a woman said. "That's not macho. That's abuse."
Phones flashed my face and the CCTV on loop. He looked around and saw the lack of defense. He started to snap, "You're overreacting—"
The angry then moved in. People began to record his words. A nearby teenager shoved his face closer. "Dude, don't do that," he said, pulling out his phone to stream.
Dexter's composure cracked. He went through the stages: triumph, confusion, denial, pleading.
"No, I didn't do anything," he murmured at first.
"You're lying," a voice replied.
"Come on, I'm sorry," Dexter begged at last, turning to me. "Leoni, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"You meant it," I answered, my voice steady. "Don't say it unless you mean it."
The room's eyes were hard. A crowd that had come to listen to a lecture was giving Dexter a verdict that wasn't law but felt like accountability. He tried to say he had been misunderstood, that they'd blown things out of proportion. People around him snapped photos and video. A woman who had once been kind to him glared and walked away.
Dexter's reaction was a small television drama. His face flushed, then paled, then crumpled. He dropped his eyes, and finally, he begged.
"Please," he said, voice collapsing. "Don't tell anyone. I can't lose my job."
"I won't stop you if you make it right," Cael said, voice cold as a bench at midnight. "Make it right by owning it. Apologize to Leoni in public. Accept that what you did was wrong. Get help."
Dexter fell to his knees like a man who had been cut off from air. "I'm sorry," he said over and over, shifting his eyes to anyone who could offer mercy.
The crowd reacted in a hundred small ways: some cheered, some hissed, some recorded, some turned away. Phones filled the air like fireflies.
What followed was not a legal sentence. It was social and subtle and brutal: Dexter's social circle withdrew. The man who'd once tried to be suave found his clicks down and his messages ignored. He lost the social capital he'd used to approach people. His attempt to coerce apologies out of fear failed because no one wanted to be associated with someone who cornered girls.
Over the next weeks, Dexter showed up once at the precinct to apologize properly; he sat in a public space and offered a sincere statement that the cameras recorded. People watched the video and noted the change in tone: from defiant to ashamed. He asked for forgiveness, and some gave it only after he had attended counseling and community service. That was his rehabilitation: small, public, slow.
Kaliyah, on the other hand, had to contend with the judgment of being labeled manipulative. She attempted to explain, to write a statement. A few tried to defend her. But most of the people who had seen the messages had already decided their view.
The punishments were public. The crowd watched both flinch.
I sat there through it, voice raw but fine, and felt the world rearrange itself into a safer place for me.
After that day, things changed. Kaliyah kept her distance. Dexter sought help. Cael and I grew closer by the small increments of trust.
He later told me, quietly, in the kitchen while we did dishes that were not ours:
"I didn't want to humiliate them. I wanted to protect you."
"You did," I answered.
"Then that's all," he said. He slipped a small, stubborn smile across his face like a secret. "Now, will you stop calling me husband in public chat?"
"Never," I said, and laughed.
"Never?" he teased.
"Never," I repeated. "At least not until after we are actually married."
He put down a plate, and his fingers brushed mine. The touch was a promise that had been practiced in tiny ways—holding my hips, holding my hand in crowds, wrapping a blanket over my shoulders when I fell asleep on his couch.
We celebrated the small things. I cooked once and he pretended it was delicious. I taught him how to fuss with a tie. He taught me how to speak up in a room full of men. We learned each other like two maps overlapping: the hot points and the quiet bays.
The world did not become perfect. But at a press conference a few months later, where Cael explained new online-safety protocols, I sat in the front row with a ring on my left hand. When he mentioned "trust," he looked at me, and the camera caught it.
"Trust," he said to the mic, "is built in small moments. It's built when you stand together and tell the truth."
After the event, when we walked out into the salt and light of the harbor, Journi nudged me.
"You two," she said. "So public."
"We like the public," I answered. "We like being visible."
Cael took my hand.
"Visible is safer," he said. "Visible is ours."
"Okay," I said. "Then let's be visible forever."
He laughed. "That's a long time."
"Good," I whispered. "I have many rockets left."
And once more, in the dark car ride home, I typed into his chat as a joke and sent a rocket.
"Stop it," he said, but he smiled.
"Never," I replied.
We both watched the little five-star burst on the phone screen, and it felt, for a moment, like fireworks fired in private.
The End
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