Chapter 23
twenty-three
. . .
Maci
Encrypted Voice Chat Rune
The best games aren’t about winning. They’re about making connections with the people you’re playing with.
The alarm goes off after what feels like five minutes.
I groan and bury my face against the warm chest beneath my cheek.
"No."
The word comes out muffled.
One strong arm tightens around me instead of letting me escape. His fingers lazily trace circles along my back while I pretend not to notice how incredibly unfair it is that he smells this good after approximately two hours of sleep.
"We have work," I mumble.
"We do."
"So... why aren't we moving?"
"We're conducting research."
I laugh into his skin. "Research?"
"On sleep deprivation."
"And?"
"My preliminary findings indicate movement is inefficient."
I tilt my head just enough to look at him.
"You made that up."
"I did."
His mouth twitches and it feels like a victory, Witt joking.
"I'm keeping track," I whisper.
"Of?"
"The number of jokes you make."
"I don't make jokes."
"You absolutely do."
"I make observations that occasionally produce amusement."
I grin. "That's the most Witt sentence ever."
His fingers continue their slow path across my back before stopping completely. For a long second neither of us says anything. I stare at the morning sunlight creeping across his lean muscled body.
Everything feels... different.
Not awkward or uncertain. I feel comfortable in his arms and in his house, making my stomach flip.
My fingers draw imaginary words on his bicep mustering up the courage to speak honestly.
"So..." I ask sheepishly. "What do we do now?"
He studies me with that thoughtful expression that always makes me wonder what equations are running through his head.
"I usually have all the answers."
"I've noticed."
"But..." His thumb brushes my hip beneath the sheet. "...I've never encountered this particular problem before."
I blink. "Problem?"
"Yes."
"I'm a problem?" I prop myself on one elbow, fighting a grin.
"You are currently preventing me from completing my morning routine."
I exaggerate a gasp. "I knew it."
"You also prevented approximately four hours and thirty-eight minutes of sleep."
"I apologized for that." I trail one finger along the edge of the blanket like I’m making a very serious legal argument.
"You did."
"And?"
"I accepted."
"But I'm still a problem."
"A significant one."
I narrow my eyes. "You're lucky you're cute."
"I've been informed that's subjective."
"It's not."
He actually smiles. Not the tiny almost-smile he usually gives—a real one. It’s warm and relaxed like someone quietly turned on a nightlight.
"I have a solution."
"You solved me?"
"I solved the schedule,” he says, reaching toward the nightstand for his phone.
"What are you doing?"
Instead of answering, he taps Dara's name.
The phone rings exactly once and he puts her on speaker.
"Witt?" Dara answers cautiously. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes."
Silence.
"...Are you sure?"
"Yes."
More silence.
"I need you to reschedule today's meetings."
"...Excuse me?"
"Maci and I won't be in."
Another pause. A much longer one.
"Witt..."
"We're working remotely."
"You've canceled your own schedule?" Dara asks.
"Correct."
"Voluntarily."
"Also correct."
"...Should I notify emergency services?"
I bury my face in the pillow to keep from laughing.
"I'm serious."
"I know."
"Witt... are you sick?"
"No."
"Kidnapped?"
"No."
“Cough twice if—"
He hangs up.
I stare at him.
"You just hung up on Dara."
"She had sufficient information."
"I think you broke her."
"Temporarily."
I start laughing so hard tears sting my eyes.
"I wish I could've seen her face."
"I've seen it once before."
"And?"
"It suggested system failure."
I can’t control the burst of laughter that comes from deep inside me. “I’m glad you’re letting me see this side of you.”
He smiles but doesn’t respond, instead he says, “I need a workout and a shower. Be ready in forty-five minutes. Two Pecan Braid pastries should be here in a few minutes.”
“How did you know they’re my favorite?”
“I see you eating them at your desk at least twice a week.”
It makes me realize that I don’t know as much about Witt as he knows about me. He’s seen my resume, interviewed me, seen me with my brother and hears me on the phone to Chase, and I know next to nothing about Witt. Except he’s the baby of the family, he’s brilliant and hot as hell.
“Thank you. That was sweet of you.” I laugh again.
“You’re like Noelle. She laughs at her own jokes too,” he says as he kisses my shoulder, then my neck and finally my lips as he rolls me on top of him.
I thought this morning he would regret being with me. He’s my boss which is probably a real problem. But he’s made me feel wanted and desired even though I know it’s stressful for him to be out of his routine.
Three hours later, we’re driving downtown in his matte-black SUV with blacked-out windows. His schedule is wrecked, entirely because of me, but apparently privacy is the one routine Witt refuses to compromise.
"So where are we going?" I ask.
"You'll see."
Cryptic.
I like it.
Austin slowly gives way to a neighborhood filled with old brick buildings painted with colorful murals. Coffee shops spill onto sidewalks. Vinyl record stores sit beside comic book shops. Street musicians play beneath giant oak trees.
Witt pulls into a small parking lot beside a weathered brick building.
A faded neon sign buzzes overhead.
PIXEL PALACE
Established 1977.
My eyes widen. "This place is still open?" I ask.
"It closed."
"Oh."
“But, I bought it."
I look at him. "You... bought an arcade?"
"It was going to be demolished."
"So naturally you purchased the entire building."
"It seemed logical."
I shake my head. "Billionaires are weird."
"I've heard that." His lips lift a little at the corners.
The moment he opens the front door, a chorus of electronic sounds rushes over us.
Beeping.
Digital explosions.
The metallic clink of pinball bumpers.
Triumphant jingles.
The rhythmic click-click-click of joysticks.
Rows of glowing arcade cabinets stretch across polished concrete floors like a museum where every exhibit still works.
Bright reds. Electric blues. Neon greens.
Original hand-painted cabinet artwork wraps around each machine.
Small brass plaques explain the history beside many of them.
A handful of families wander through while grandparents point excitedly at games they played as teenagers. It’s summer and this place is hopping to be so early in the morning.
A little boy jumps every time his father defeats another alien.
"This..." I whisper.
"...was the beginning." Witt's voice carries a softness I've never heard before.
"When people think about gaming now, they think about billion-dollar studios and virtual reality." He walks beside one cabinet, resting his fingertips lightly against the edge. "But before all of that..."
"...there was this," I say, admiring him and the machines. He’s different here, more like what he was in bed. Eyes bright and an excitement I’ve only seen when he’s proud of me for solving a problem.
"I came here when I was twelve.”
"You did?"
"Dad brought all of us," he states. "I was terrible."
I blink. "You?"
"I kept looking at how the cabinet was built instead of the game."
I laugh. "That sounds exactly like you."
"It annoyed Greyson."
"I'm shocked."
"He said if I analyzed one more joystick, he was leaving me."
"What happened?"
"I analyzed two."
I burst out laughing. "Did he leave?"
"No. He complained loudly for approximately sixteen minutes."
"That also sounds right."
For the next hour we bounce from cabinet to cabinet.
He destroys me at Galaga and I somehow beat him at Pac-Man. He claims it was statistically improbable. I claim he panicked.
"I do not panic."
"You definitely panicked."
"The ghost approached unexpectedly."
"They're all ghosts, Witt."
"They were... aggressive."
I laugh so hard I nearly lose another life.
As we wander deeper into the building, I notice old concept sketches framed on the walls.
The evolution of controllers.
Original advertisements.
Photographs of kids lined up around machines in the late seventies and eighties.
An idea sparks so fast I actually stop walking.
"What?"
I turn toward him. "Your streaming platform."
He waits.
"What if we did a documentary series?"
He tilts his head.
"Explain."
"The evolution of gaming."
His eyes sharpen.
"Not just consoles." I keep talking faster as the pieces click together.
"The people… the arcades… the competitions. Show the friendships created. The home systems. Show how it’s grown and we can create a new nostalgia.”
I take a quick breath before I continue throwing out all these ideas. "How gaming changed from quarters and joysticks into communities."
"We interview developers."
"Collectors."
"Players."
"We show people where all this started."
For several seconds he simply watches me. Then... "I like that."
"You do?"
"Yes." His smile grows.
"I also dislike that I didn't think of it first."
I chew on that for a moment before he continues, “That’s why I don’t use money cards here.
I wanted to keep the nostalgia of hearing quarters dropping and the bleep that you hear when it’s accepted.
I don’t want to compete with new arcades.
I want kids to know how we got to where we are today. Building one more feature at a time.”
He slides his hand into mine and I think how incredible this man is.
“It’s amazing how one idea turns into another.”
He turns me to face him and says, “You build the foundation. The structure. Then it can grow.”
I no longer know if he’s talking about us or gaming.
Lunch is in a converted train depot that now houses a sandwich shop with antique railroad signs hanging from the rafters.
Original wooden benches still line the walls.
Old ticket windows have been transformed into ordering counters.
The smell of fresh sourdough, smoked brisket, roasted tomatoes, and homemade potato chips fills the air.
"It's adorable," I say.
"It has excellent soup."
"That's the most practical recommendation ever."
"The soup is objectively excellent."
Halfway through lunch, my eyes drift toward him wanting to ask him the question that’s been on my mind since the early morning hours.
I don’t know if I should, it’s kind of coming out of the blue, but I have a need-to-know things.
Once I know that I don’t know something, it eats through me.
It’s half the reason I am good at what I do.
I take one more bite, chew twenty-seven times like my mom taught me. I never do this but I’m wobbling on whether to ask. Finally, I blurt out, "Were your mom and dad divorced?"
His sandwich pauses halfway to his mouth.
"No."
"Oh."
“Why?”
“I saw the family picture in your room.”
"My mother died."
His voice stays even.
Matter-of-fact.
My heart sinks because even though my mom doesn’t understand me, she was there. "I'm sorry."
He gives one small nod.
That's all he says. No dramatic pause. No invitation to dig deeper. So, I let it be.
Instead, I smile, softly. "Okay."
He studies me. "Okay?"
"You'll tell me more someday."
"Perhaps."
"But today...," I steal one of his fries. “Today I want to know embarrassing little-kid Witt stories."
"You assume they exist,” he says with no inflection in his tone.
"I know they exist."
"They're classified."
“I’ll bribe Noelle."
He tilts his head and considers the thought and says, “She is vulnerable to baked goods."
"I knew it."
He sighs. “But do you bake?”
“No but I can order them from the bakery with the pecan braids.”
He leans forward and the softness in his eyes isn’t lost on me. I think to myself, Oh, this is going to be good.
Then he whispers, “I once alphabetized the family board games."
I let out a “How old were you?”
"Six."
I laugh. "Please tell me someone ruined it."
"Parker."
"Immediately?"
"In eleven minutes."
"What did you do?"
"I cried."
I stop laughing. "You cried?"
"We had eighteen years’ worth of games from J.D. to me. I spent three hours organizing them."
"Oh, Witt."
"I considered replacing him."
"You couldn't."
"I know."
"Dad said siblings aren't returnable."
By the time we leave the restaurant, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
I've seen the billionaire.
The genius.
The CEO.
Today...
I met the little boy who loved old games enough to save an entire arcade.
And somehow...
I think I like him even more.
When we get back, he asks me to write up a proposal on the documentary idea. Dara has rescheduled two of his appointments for late afternoon and evening since they were stationed on the west coast.
My mind races with all that I’ve experienced in the last 24 hours—Witt, the arcade, the funny moments and the one that should have been emotional.
His mom died and he didn’t have anything to say about it.
I wanted to ask why he wasn’t in the picture but he clearly didn’t want to dive deeper into the subject.
That night I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying today in my head. The way he smiled and laughed and occasionally spoke in long sentences.
His excitement explaining why arcade cabinets used side art instead of plain black panels.
His face when I pitched the documentary.
For one brief second, I remember him saying Galaga had always been one of his favorite games.
I smile to myself.
Funny.
That was one of Glitch's favorites too.
Then I shrug.
Everybody loves Galaga.
It was one of the greatest arcade games ever made.
The thought drifts away almost as quickly as it came.
Instead, I fall asleep wondering if tomorrow Witt will smile like that again.