EXTRA 2.1 – Strawberry

[Noah’s POV]

She showed up at my door twenty minutes late, hair brighter than my hallway light, hugging a half-empty bubble tea and her laptop bag like she was on the run from the feds.

“Don’t. Say. A word,” she hissed before I could open my mouth.

I said a word anyway. “Blonde?”

She kicked my shin on the way in.

She dumped her stuff on my couch, bubble tea rattling dangerously close to my keyboard. Then she ripped off her hoodie — static made her hair float a bit — and plopped right next to me at my cramped little desk.

“This is me now,” she muttered, glaring at my grin reflected in the monitor. “Shut up. It’ll be gone next month.”

“It’s cute.”

She stopped mid-headphone untangle. Glared harder. “Don’t say that like you mean it.”

I nudged her chair with my knee, "I do mean it. You look like a stray cat that robbed a beauty salon.”

She wheezed out a snort-laugh before elbowing me in the ribs. “Eat asphalt, Noah. Just start OBS.”

She smelled like drugstore bleach and cheap strawberry shampoo. I didn’t say that out loud. Instead, I angled my mic so she wouldn’t bonk it with her chaotic flailing.

Her laptop booted up beside mine, cords tangled together like a spaghetti horror. We always did this— squeezed into my room like broke college kids, which technically, she wasn’t anymore.

“Oi.” She poked my cheek with her pen. “Promise if I ugly cry you’ll block it with a meme.”

“I’ll mute you and play clown music.”

She flicked her pen at me. “Perfect.”

OBS flashed the final collab title at us: Ketsu & Noah’s Last Trash Fire. Our chat was already shrieking in the waiting room: WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS HE? WHO FORGOT TO HIT GO LIVE?

She leaned back in my old gamer chair, blonde hair sticking out under my spare headset. She never looked so loud and soft at the same time.

“Hey, Noah.”

“What now.”

“Thanks for letting me… y’know. Be messy here.”

I didn’t look at her. I checked my audio levels instead. “Don’t get sappy. You’ll ruin your brand.”

She punched my arm. “Fine. Okay. I’m good.”

One deep breath. One click. Red light on.

She grinned at me sideways— eyes bright, hair bright, everything stupidly alive for one more night.

“Ready, Pop Star?” she whispered, just for me.

“Born ready.”

And we went live.