Chapter 19
nineteen
. . .
Maci
Game Chat: Rune
Sometimes the best players aren't the ones who know every move. They're the ones willing to risk making the wrong one. Ha!
The apartment feels different when Witt is home.
It's ridiculous because nothing has actually changed.
The same city lights twinkle beyond the windows.
The same baking competition is on television with contestants arguing over buttercream like it's a matter of national security.
Even the bowl of popcorn sitting in my lap is the same one I would've eaten if he'd been halfway across the country tonight.
Yet the second the elevator doors opened and he stepped inside, something inside the penthouse settled.
Maybe it isn't the apartment that feels different.
Maybe it’s me.
He loosens his tie as he walks toward the living room, looking more tired than I've ever seen him.
The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his forearms, exposing tanned skin and strong wrists that somehow make my heart race more than they should.
There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair has given up trying to stay neat sometime during the flight home.
"You look exhausted," I say softly.
"Four meetings. Seventy-three people."
I wince. "I'm exhausted just hearing that."
"It was inefficient."
I laugh, and he looks at me in that quiet way he has lately. Not analyzing. Not avoiding. Simply... looking.
"I thought you were staying overnight,” I admit before I can stop myself.
His expression changes almost imperceptibly. "I noticed."
My heart stumbles.
Of course he did.
He notices everything.
He notices when I switch coffee mugs. When I wear my hair down instead of twisting it into a messy bun. When I skip lunch because I disappear into a project. He notices when I smile at a good idea before I ever say it out loud.
Somehow, without realizing it, I've started depending on being noticed by him.
“Why didn’t you stay?” I ask.
“I like to be at home.”
Of course he does. What I don’t understand is how it can feel like a home. It feels more like a corporate rental.
He glances toward the television where a contestant is dramatically mourning a collapsed cake.
I pull my feet up to make room for him on the couch. “Sit.”
He seems to gauge the amount of room between my feet and the open spot like he might get burned if he sits down. Finally he lets out a sigh and sinks into the couch, not touching me.
"They're still arguing,” he says, almost like it’s a question.
"They're passionate."
"They're baking cupcakes." He considers that with complete sincerity.
“Passion isn’t confined to anything specific.”Another laugh escapes me. "I swear your brain works on a completely different operating system."
"It does."
Witt takes off his glasses, which he only wears at night, letting them dangle between his fingers.
Something in the breath behind his words makes his brilliance sound less like a gift and more like something he sometimes wishes he could turn off.
His mind doesn't work like everyone else's, and instead of letting the moment pass, every instinct in me wants to make him feel less alone.
“I love that about you.”
He doesn’t look at me, but I see the edge of his lips turn up into a smile.