4. Chapter 4
Jace
But I hate coffee shops even more.
Which is why it makes absolutely no sense that I'm standing in line at Grounded, waiting to order the same black coffee and ginger scone I get every day, surrounded by people who think their caffeine addiction is a personality trait.
The irony isn't lost on me. I, Jace Wilder, game developer and self-proclaimed digital hermit, voluntarily leaving my apartment every morning to stand in a crowded space full of strangers. If my therapist could see me now, she'd probably mark it as progress. She'd be wrong.
I'm not here for personal growth. I'm here because this place has the only ginger scones in a five-mile radius that meet my standards.
Perfectly geometric, with exactly twelve visible chunks of crystallized ginger—no more, no less.
The ratio of sweetness to spice is mathematically precise.
The texture has the exact right amount of crumble.
I've tried making them myself. It ended with a smoke detector screaming and my neighbor threatening to call the fire department.
And maybe, just maybe, because I want to see her.
I shuffle with the line, scrolling through work emails on my phone. Three bug reports from the QA team. A passive-aggressive message from marketing about the next dev update. Another request to speak at some gaming convention I have zero interest in attending.
"Morning, Wilder!"
I glance up. Theo Dawson stands in front of me, all swagger and expensive cologne. The human equivalent of a push notification you can't disable.
"Dawson," I mutter. "Thought you'd be sleeping off last night's bender."
He grins, unaffected as always. "Some of us can party and still function the next day, Wilder. It's called being well-adjusted."
"Is that what they call it?" I arch an eyebrow. "Seems exhausting."
"Not as exhausting as whatever brooding marathon you've got planned for today." He nods toward my standard all-black attire. "Let me guess—you're headed back to your cave to scowl at lines of code and listen to music that was depressing fifteen years ago?"
I don't dignify that with a response. Theo and I have worked together for three years at Nexus Gaming.
He's brilliant when it comes to marketing and player engagement.
I handle the backend development—the systems and mechanics that make everything work.
We're opposites in almost every way, but somehow it works.
Usually.
"I need caffeine," I say, which is code for 'leave me alone until I've had my coffee.'
He laughs and claps me on the shoulder. "I'm headed to the office. Try not to terrify the baristas with your morning face."
I watch him leave, then return to my phone. The line inches forward. I can smell the coffee now, rich and bitter. My stomach growls in anticipation.
The line continues to inch forward. My fingers drum against my thigh in a specific pattern—three taps, pause, two taps, pause, three taps.
It's a habit I've had since childhood, a way to organize the chaos in my head.
My therapist calls it a "grounding technique.
" My college roommates called it "that weird shit Jace does when he's thinking. "
I glance around the café, taking in the same familiar details I always do. The chipped paint on the eastern wall. The slightly uneven table in the corner. My eyes inevitably drawing back to the barista with the pink hair working the espresso machine.
Wren.
Something in my chest tightens when I look at her. It always does. She moves with quiet efficiency, her hands dancing over the equipment with practiced precision. No wasted motion. No unnecessary flourish. Just pure, focused competence.
She's never taken my order directly. She stays behind the machines, away from the register, away from the need to speak. I've noticed, of course. I notice everything about her.
The register girl—Maya, according to her name tag—catches me staring and smirks. I quickly avert my eyes, focusing instead on the pastry case. The geometric perfection of those ginger scones calls to me like a beacon of order in a chaotic universe.
It's my turn to order. Maya's smile is too knowing for comfort.
"Let me guess," she says. "Black coffee and a ginger scone?"
I grunt in response. Words feel like gravel in my throat this early. Social interaction requires a level of energy I haven't managed to bootstrap yet.
"That'll be $10."
I hand over my card, careful not to make eye contact. Eye contact invites conversation. Conversation leads to questions. Questions lead to me saying something awkward that I'll replay in my head for the next three years.
I step to the side, watching Wren work the espresso machine from under my hood and trying not to make it too obvious.
Today, her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, strands of pink escaping around her face.
There's a quietness to her that feels familiar somehow.
Comfortable. Like the silence between lines of perfect code.
In the game world, I don’t hesitate. I lead.
Every raid, every strategy, every impossible mission—they look to me to take control.
I dominate every battlefield I step onto because there, the rules make sense.
There’s order. Logic. Cause and effect. Out here?
In the real world? I can barely look a girl in the eye without overthinking it into oblivion.
Maya places my order on the counter and turns to Wren, her hands moving in fluid gestures.
Sign language.
I freeze, suddenly more alert. My cousin Ellie is deaf. I learned ASL growing up, spending summers with her family when my parents were too busy with their careers to deal with a moody teenager. I'm rusty now, but I still catch enough to follow along.
“...that game I was telling you about,” Maya signs. “ The one with the post-apocalyptic setting and the cool combat system.”
Wren's hands move in response, quick and expressive. “The one with the sniper class? Looks intense.”
“Yeah! It's by that developer I mentioned—Nexus. The lead guy did an interview last week.”
My coffee grows cold in my hand. They're talking about Wasteland Chronicles—my game. The one I've poured the last three years of my life into.
“I've played it,” Wren signs, and I almost drop my cup. “ The mechanics are brilliant. Whoever designed it understands flow and player psychology.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest. Pride, maybe. Or something more complicated.
“You should tell him ,” Maya signs with a mischievous smile, nodding in my direction. “ He works there. Lead developer.”
Wren's eyes widen slightly, darting toward me before quickly looking away.
“No way,” she signs back, a slight flush creeping up her neck.
“Yes way,” Maya replies, then switches to speaking. "Hey, Wren here is a huge fan of your game."
I clear my throat, suddenly aware that I've been staring. "Really? That's... great."
Wren's hands move tentatively. “ Your combat system is genius. Especially the sniper mechanics.”
I understand every word, but something short-circuits in my brain. I should respond in ASL. I know how. I've been signing since I was twelve. But instead, I just stand there like an idiot.
"She says your combat system is amazing," Maya translates unnecessarily. "Especially for snipers."
"Thanks," I manage. "I, uh... I'm glad you enjoy it."
Wren tilts her head slightly, studying me with those intelligent eyes. Then her hands move again.
"The long-range precision mechanics reward patience. Not many games get that right."
Maya translates again but I'm not paying attention. Something about her phrasing, the specific terminology she uses—it's familiar. Too familiar. Like reading game chat messages I've seen a hundred times before.
I stare at her for a moment, her precise movements, the careful way she positions herself. A distant memory surfaces: Silence, our team's sniper, messaging about sight lines, long-range precision and patience during one of our last raid.
Holy shit.
Could she be...?
The player who communicates only through text and never uses voice chat. Because she can't.
The pieces click together with dizzying speed.
I open my mouth, then close it again. Words form and dissolve before I can speak them. The possibility alone makes my heart hammer against my ribs.
"She can't talk," Maya reminds me gently, misinterpreting my silence. "But she understands English perfectly."
I know that. Of course I know that. But my brain is still trying to process this revelation, and my ASL skills have apparently abandoned me completely.
"I... I should get going," I stammer. "Meeting. Work. Thanks for the coffee."
I nod awkwardly at Wren, grab my scone, and practically flee the café.
Outside, the morning air hits my face like a slap. I lean against the building, coffee clutched in one hand, scone in the other, heart hammering in my chest.
Silence. The player who's been part of our team for over a year. The one Theo and I have speculated about endlessly. The one whose precision and timing have saved our asses more times than I can count.
She's been here all along. Making my coffee. Watching me stumble through morning interactions like a socially stunted cave troll.
And I just walked away without saying anything remotely intelligent.
Brilliant, Wilder. Fucking brilliant.
I take a bite of my scone, barely tasting it. My mind races, connecting dots, revising every interaction we've had—both in-game and in this café.
The way she moves. Efficient. Precise. Just like her gameplay.
The quiet focus. The way she observes everything but reveals nothing.
The pink hair that I've caught myself staring at more times than I care to admit.
I've always been drawn to her. Something about her pulled at me—her silence, her self-containment, the careful way she holds herself apart from the world.
Now I understand why.
She's perfect. Not in some idealized, romanticized way. Perfect in the sense that she fits—into my life, my world, my games. She understands the systems I build. She moves through them with intuitive grace.
And I just blew my first real chance to connect with her.
I pull out my phone and open our team chat. Theo—HexedOut—sent a message an hour ago about tonight's raid. I stare at the screen, thinking about Silence. About Wren.
About second chances.
I type a quick message:
[WrathSpawn: Same time tonight?]
The response comes almost immediately:
[HexedOut: Obviously. Try not to be late this time.]
I pocket my phone and start walking toward the office, my mind still replaying those moments in the café. The way her hands moved, elegant and expressive. The recognition in her eyes when Maya mentioned my game.
Tonight will be different. Tonight, I'll know who I'm playing with.
The question is: does she know who I am?
And if she doesn't, how do I tell her that WrathSpawn—the guy she's been gaming with for months—is the same awkward developer who can barely string two words together in her presence?
I finish my coffee and toss the cup in a recycling bin. The city bustles around me, but I barely notice. My thoughts are full of pink hair and silent precision and the strange, unexpected ways our worlds have collided.
For the first time in weeks, I feel something other than the usual morning grumpiness.
I feel... anticipation.