Chapter 39
ETHAN
Piper Renner just told me she loves me using a three-act structure.
It’s the most ridiculous, most perfectly her thing I’ve ever witnessed, and I’m so gone for this girl, it’s not even funny.
“So,” I say, still holding her face in my hands, trying to process that she’s here and real and mine. “You’ve been taking care of Greg for me?”
“He’s very high-maintenance.” She’s relaxed now, the tension that’s been radiating off her finally easing. “Do you know he has opinions about plant food brands?”
“He’s particular about his nutrients.”
“Extremely particular. I bought three different kinds before he approved.” Her hands come up to cover mine. “He missed you. His leaves were literally drooping with sadness.”
“Just Greg?”
“Not just Greg,” she admits softly.
I pull her closer, needing to touch her, to confirm this is real. “I have things to tell you too. About what’s been happening.”
“Good things?”
“Some good, some terrifying.” I lead her to sit on my bed, our knees touching. “I submitted my game to five indie studios.”
Her face lights up. “Ethan! That’s incredible!”
“With the revisions you inspired. The choice mechanic that lets players decide how to face their destruction.” I take her hand. “Your critique made my game better, Pip. Made me better.”
“You made yourself better. I just pointed out what was already there.”
“And the beta reviews...” I pull up Discord on my phone, show her the flood of five-star ratings. “Including one from ButterBoi69 that made me realize what an idiot I’ve been.”
She ducks her head, not saying anything. “‘Taking criticism and making art.’” I tilt her chin up. “It meant everything. Knowing you were still in my corner even when I was being defensive about your help.”
“Always,” she says simply. “Even when you couldn’t see it.”
“There’s more.” I take a breath. “I told my dad about submitting to studios. He... wasn’t thrilled.”
Her hand tightens on mine. “What happened?”
“He called after seeing my improved grades from the tutoring credit. Started going on about how I was finally being responsible, compensating for my ‘failed athletic career.’” The words still sting, but differently now.
“So I told him the truth. That I don’t need his approval to know I’m good at this. ”
“How did he take it?”
“Threatened to cut me off financially.” I meet her eyes. “And I told him to do it.”
“Ethan...”
“I’m done living for his dreams. Done apologizing for choosing my own path.” I brush my thumb over her knuckles. “You helped me see that, by looking at my game—not as a hobby or a waste of time, but as something that matters.”
“It does matter. You’re going to change how people think about narrative in games.”
“Maybe. But even if I don’t, at least I’ll have tried on my own terms.”
She shifts closer, and suddenly the air between us charges with something electric. “I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her free hand comes up to trace my jaw. “It’s incredibly sexy when you stand up for your art.”
Heat flashes through me. “Is it now?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She’s looking at my mouth now. “Almost as sexy as when you stand up for me. Or make me laugh. Or basically when you do anything at all.”
“Piper...”
“I’ve been thinking about you all week,” she continues, voice dropping lower. “About how you trusted me with your vulnerability. How you made me feel safe enough to be honest. How you look when you’re passionate about your work.”
I catch her hand, press it flat against my chest where my heart is racing. “I've been thinking about you too. Couldn't focus on anything else.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“This,” I say, and finally, finally kiss her.
It starts wrong—noses bumping, glasses clicking against my face, her surprised inhale making her hiccup slightly. We both pull back, startled, and then she's giggling against my mouth and I'm laughing too, and somehow that makes it perfect.
“Sorry, I—” she starts.
“Your glasses are cold,” I say at the same time.
“Your fault for not warning me,” she counters, but she's already pulling me back in, and this time we get it right.
The kiss tastes like her nervous energy and my relief. I claim her mouth with my tongue and when she nips at my bottom lip, I make an embarrassing sound that I'll deny later.
“I missed this,” she whispers, not pulling away but speaking against my mouth like she can't bear the distance. “Missed you. Your terrible jokes, your plant parenting, the way you make me feel—”
“How do I make you feel?” I pull back just enough to see her face, flushed and beautiful, her glasses fogged at the edges.
“Like I’m worth fighting for. Like my weird brain is a feature, not a bug.” She traces my bottom lip with her thumb. “Like maybe I don’t need an algorithm to tell me what’s right.”
“You don’t,” I agree, catching her thumb between my teeth gently. “Sometimes the best things can’t be quantified.”
“Speaking of things that can’t be quantified...” Her other hand slides under my shirt, fingernails scraping lightly over my abs. “How much longer are we going to talk?”
I suck in a breath at her touch. “That depends. What would you rather be doing?”
“I think you know.” She pulls me down for another kiss, this one all heat and promise. “I’ve been very patient. Very good. I deserve a reward.”
“What kind of reward?” I’m already trailing kisses down her neck, finding that spot that makes her gasp.
“The thorough kind. The kind where you show me exactly how much you missed me.”
“That could take a while,” I warn, nipping at her collarbone. “I missed you a lot.”
“Good thing we have all afternoon.”
She tugs at my shirt, and I pull back to remove it, tossing it aside. Her eyes go dark as she takes me in, hands immediately exploring the exposed skin.
“Statistical anomaly,” she murmurs, tracing the lines of my chest.
“What?”
“You. Being this attractive and this talented and this willing to grow.” Her hands still on my shoulders. “Do you know how rare that is?”
“About as rare as finding someone who writes structured apologies and makes my plant thrive,” I counter, pulling her onto my lap. “We’re both statistical anomalies.”
“Maybe that’s why we work,” she says, then gasps as I find that sensitive spot behind her ear. “Ethan...”
“Yeah?”
“Less talking. More of that thing you just did.”
I grin against her skin. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Though for the record,” she adds, even as her hands tangle in my hair, “your communication skills have improved dramatically.”
“Thanks to my tutee,” I murmur, then capture her mouth again before she can analyze that too.
This time when we kiss, it’s with the promise of more. Of time to explore, to relearn each other, to build something stronger than before. Her body presses against mine, soft and warm and perfect, and I know we should probably talk more about logistics and expectations and the future.
But right now, with Piper in my arms and Greg watching approvingly from his windowsill, with honesty finally winning over fear and our story rewritten with a better ending, talking can wait.
We have all the time in the world to figure out the details.
Right now, I just want to show her exactly how much I love her complicated brain and terrible organizational skills and the way she makes everything, even heartbreak, into a learning experience.
“Ethan?” she says against my mouth.
“Mmm?”
“Thank you for being patient with me. For letting me figure out how to be brave.”
I pull back to look at her, this brilliant, beautiful girl who chose me.
“Thank you for being brave enough to come here. For fighting for us instead of waiting.”
“No more waiting,” she agrees, then pulls me down until we’re horizontal, and she's beneath me on the bed. “Starting now.”
“Starting now,” I confirm, and proceed to show her exactly what she’s been missing.
Greg rustles his approval from the windowsill, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I think about how this would make a terrible game narrative—too neat, too convenient, too happily-ever-after.
But maybe, that’s okay. Maybe real life doesn’t need plot twists and dramatic endings.
Maybe sometimes, the best stories are the ones where two people choose each other, flaws and all, and build something worth keeping.
Even if it takes a few rewrites to get there.