Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
Witt
Game Chat: Glitch
Some glitches aren't errors. They're proof the system was never designed for what comes next.
I should look away.
Instead, I count.
Three shades of green.
Most people think eyes have one color.
They don't.
The outer edge of Maci's irises is darker, almost forest green. Closer to her pupils, the color softens into moss, and when the outdoor lights catch them just right, tiny flecks of gold appear like someone dusted sunlight across the surface.
I've never noticed that before. Why? Because looking into someone’s eyes is uncomfortable, and painful. Yet, I can’t stop looking into hers.
My nerves prickle and my stomach does this weird flip flop thing.
With one of the balcony doors pushed open, I can still hear the faint sound of glasses clinking together. Somewhere behind me, someone laughs loud enough to turn heads, but not mine. For some reason I can’t stop looking into her eyes.
The band shifts into another song, and applause rises from the opposite side of the room where another adaptive gaming demonstration has just finished.
I hear all of it.
Normally, I hear everything.
The lights.
The conversations.
Shoes against polished marble.
Air conditioning.
Ice settling inside crystal glasses.
My brain catalogs every sound without permission.
Except...
Not now.
Now there is only Maci.
She's looking at me with the same expression I imagine I'm wearing.
Confused.
Curious.
Almost... hopeful.
Time behaves strangely. I know only a few seconds have passed because somewhere in the back of my mind, the analytical part of me is still counting. But those seconds stretch until they feel suspended, as if the rest of the ballroom has slowed to accommodate whatever is happening between us.
My chest tightens in a way I don't have language for. I instinctively search for an explanation, the same way I would troubleshoot a line of code or diagnose a failing system, but there isn't one. There are no variables to isolate. No formula to apply.
I've kissed women before. In college, because that's what everyone else seemed to do. A few dates after Synatrix became successful, when people suddenly became interested in the billionaire instead of the awkward guy who preferred gaming to parties.
Those kisses all shared one thing in common.
I never remembered their eyes. Never looked into them.
I remember restaurants. Conversations. Perfume. The expectation that I was supposed to enjoy myself. But I couldn't tell you if a single one of them had blue eyes or brown.
Yet somehow, in less than a minute, I know Maci Hart's eyes better than I know my own.
That realization settles over me with quiet certainty.
Looking into her eyes isn't leading to intimacy.
It is intimacy.
Every kiss before was mechanical, apply pressure, move my lips. I kissed them because it was the expectation.
Kissing those women doesn’t compare to looking into Maci’s eyes.
Because this—this isn't physical.
It's visual.
Looking into Maci Hart's eyes for this long is somehow more intimate than every kiss I've ever had combined.
The realization unsettles me.
No, it terrifies me.
Her eyes haven’t left mine. She doesn’t fill the silence or ask if I’m okay. We are simply sharing a moment. As though she instinctively knows forcing the moment would destroy it.
Nobody has ever done that before.
Not even my family.
Especially not my family.
Birdie would already be asking why I look constipated.
Parker would wave a hand in front of my face.
Greyson would assume I'm solving a problem.
Only Maci stands perfectly still.
Waiting.
Giving me room to process without realizing that's exactly what I need.
Something warm spreads slowly through my chest like a sunrise peeking over a mountain.
It makes no sense. Feelings don't make sense. They’re inefficient and unpredictable. Impossible to quantify.
Now one woman has dismantled my nervous system simply by standing in front of me wearing an emerald dress and refusing to rush my silence.
My gaze drops for the briefest moment.
Her lips.
Then immediately returns to her eyes.
I shouldn't know they're soft.
I don't know but I want to.
Where did that thought come from?
It certainly wasn't invited.
"Maci."
Her name leaves my mouth quietly.
Almost experimentally, like I'm testing how it sounds when nobody else is talking.
She smiles. Just enough that those tiny flecks of gold brighten again.
Eyes shouldn't change because someone smiles, yet hers do.
She's real.
The thought arrives without warning.
Rune has always existed inside speakers, computer monitors, handwritten letters folded into envelopes I've kept for years.
Pixels.
Code.
Words.
Maci Hart is standing inches away.
Warm.
Breathing.
Real.
And somehow my brain insists on comparing them even though it shouldn't.
They're nothing alike.
Except...
They challenge me.
They ask better questions than anyone else.
They refuse easy answers.
They make me want to become a better version of myself.
Coincidence.
Has to be.
My hand lifts before I consciously decide to move it.
Not toward her face.
That's too much.
A single strand of silvery-pink hair has escaped whatever impossible arrangement women create before formal events.
It's resting against her shoulder.
Crooked.
I gently hook it with one finger.
Tuck it behind her ear.
My fingertips barely brush her skin.
Warm.
She inhales sharply.
So do I.
My pulse, usually dependable and consistent, becomes... less dependable.
This is a mistake.
I know it is.
Employee.
CEO.
Temporary roommate.
Every rule I've ever made exists for a reason.
I should step back.
I don't.
Instead, I lean forward.
Barely.
Giving her every opportunity to stop me.
She doesn't.
Her eyes flutter closed for half a second.
Then open again.
Still looking at me.
Still trusting me.
The distance between us disappears so gradually I don't realize it's gone until my lips meet hers.
The kiss is soft.
Tentative.
Nothing like the dramatic kisses movies insist people have.
It's a question.
One I've apparently been asking without knowing it.
She answers by kissing me back.
Just once.
Gentle and careful, our lips overlap, stringing together small kisses into a big one. She tastes like strawberries and cream.
The world stops.
I no longer hear the muffled beat of the music or conversations about the food or donations.
For one impossible heartbeat, there is no noise.
No systems demanding my attention.
Only her.
Only us.
I've spent my entire life searching for quiet. I never imagined I'd find it inside another person. Our lips part and I rest my forehead against hers as I chase a breath.
But reality returns all at once.
Employee.
Company.
Power imbalance.
Every rule crashes back into place with painful precision.
I step away, fast and immediate like I was stung by a killer bee and the cool air between us feels wrong.
"I shouldn't have done that,” I stammer. My words taste like failure.
She looks as startled as I feel. More importantly...she looks hurt.
I did that.
She opens her mouth.
Nothing comes out.
I want to explain, but I don't understand it myself.
I've built billion-dollar companies. Designed systems millions of people use every day. Predicted markets years before competitors. Yet I cannot explain why looking into one woman's eyes made every carefully ordered part of my world collapse.
So, I do the only thing I've ever known how to do when a system breaks.
I leave to analyze.