Chapter 21
twenty-one
. . .
Maci
Encrypted Chat Rune
I never knew silence could feel this way.
Dreaming of Witt and me on the beach, an enormous wave thunders down on us and instead of seeing what happens next, I wake up.
For one disoriented second, I don't know what it is. The television has long since gone quiet, the apartment is dark except for the soft glow of the city lights beyond the windows, and I’m nestled comfortably on the couch.
Then I realize what it is or should I say who it is.
Witt.
I lift my head just enough to find him still sitting beside me, his head tipped back against the couch cushion, fast asleep. One arm is stretched along the back of the couch, the blanket we shared still draped over us, and somehow my feet are still resting comfortably in his lap.
My stomach drops.
Oh no.
I carefully glance toward the microwave clock in the kitchen.
2:18 a.m.
Panic immediately pushes away the last traces of sleep. In less than four hours, Witt will be getting ready for work, and instead of spending the night in his perfectly researched mattress inside his meticulously organized bedroom, he's been folded onto a couch because of me.
Because I fell asleep.
Because somewhere between baking disasters and quiet conversations, my heart forgot this wasn’t my home.
It was Witt's routine.
And if there's one thing I've learned about him, it's that routines aren't preferences.
They're how he keeps the world from becoming too loud.
Carefully, I pull my knees up to my chest, deciding whether to wake him. He must be a light sleeper because his eyes open.
“Hey, we fell asleep. We should go to bed.”
Witt surveys the space, not me. I push the blanket from my body as I stand and fold it up to put it exactly where I found it. Draped over the left side of the couch and at a precise angle of forty-five degrees.
He reaches around me for the remote, turning off the television and when I turn, we’re close enough that I can smell the clean scent of his soap beneath whatever airport and airplane smells are still clinging to him.
His gaze drops to my oversized T-shirt.
GAME OVER.
When his eyes lift back to mine, they're softer than I've ever seen them. He’s staring at me. This is major. My insides twist tighter. My heart feels like a freight train is barreling through me.
He’s hesitant at first as his hands skate up my arms and land on my neck with his fingers tunneling into my hair and his thumbs swiping my cheeks.
"Game on."
With his face half shadowed with the only light coming from the windows, his soft lips connect with mine. Coffee lingers on his lips as they overlap mine. At first his top lip is over mine then it’s between mine. He rotates until my mouth is begging for more.
Witt’s tongue slides in, confident and sure, rolling tenderly around mine. Maybe I’m still dreaming. But then I feel his growing erection as he draws me against him.
I am not dreaming. This is real.
When we break apart, a lazy smile spreads across my face before I can help it.
"That might be the nerdiest thing you've ever said."
"It had a purpose." His lips twitch with amusement. Something I don’t see often.
"It did."
Neither of us moves.
The silence stretches between us, comfortable and warm, yet charged.
Somewhere along the way, silence stopped feeling awkward with Witt.
It became something I looked forward to because I never had to perform inside it.
I never had to fill it with meaningless conversation or pretend to be someone else.
With him... quiet feels like being understood.
My fingers settle against the front of his dress shirt, brushing lightly over the first button. I glance up, silently asking permission, and when he gives the smallest nod, I slip it free.
Then another.
Then another.
Each button feels strangely intimate, not because of what I'm uncovering but because of what he's allowing me to see.
Standing this close to him still surprises me.
He's everything people never expect when they hear the word gamer.
No colorful hair like mine. No slouched posture from years behind a keyboard.
Just broad shoulders beneath his day-old white cotton button-down, a chest that fills the shirt in ways I definitely shouldn't be noticing, and a body built more like one of his football-playing brothers than a billionaire who spends his life creating worlds on computer screens.
He reaches for my hand.
"Come with me." His voice is rough from sleep, low enough that it slips straight beneath my skin.
Every logical part of my brain reminds me I should probably hesitate.
This is his bedroom.
His space.
The one place in the penthouse that belongs completely to Witt.
Instead, my fingers tighten around his, and I follow.
He leads me down the hall and up the short floating staircase without another word.
The house is almost completely dark, the only streak of light coming from the moon spilling through the massive windows overlooking Austin.
Even his footsteps are quieter up here, like this floor understands it belongs to him.
As soon as we step through the doorway, a small lamp on the nightstand glows softly to life, triggered by a motion sensor instead of a switch.
I grin because that’s more efficient. The warm amber light doesn't brighten the whole room.
Just enough to reveal pieces of it, almost as if his bedroom is introducing itself one detail at a time.
It's unmistakably Witt.
Everything has a purpose.
Nothing is excessive.
The bed is perfectly made, the corners crisp enough to bounce a quarter.
A charcoal blanket is folded with military precision across the foot, and every line in the room seems intentional, clean, uncomplicated.
The rest disappears into shadow, leaving me to wonder what secrets daylight keeps hidden.
My eyes drift across the dresser.
There's a framed photograph of what looks like his family sitting near the corner, but from here I can't make out the faces. Something about it catches my attention anyway. Maybe it's the way it's tucked slightly behind another object instead of displayed proudly in the center.
In the corner, three dark leather boxes are stacked from largest to smallest with mathematical precision, each one perfectly aligned with the edge of the nightstand.
On one of the nightstands sits a crooked ceramic bowl, glazed unevenly in shades of blue and green.
One side sags lower than the other, the rim lopsided in a way only tiny hands could create.
It doesn't belong in this immaculate room.
Which means...
It probably belongs here more than anything else.
Standing inside his bedroom feels strangely intimate—not because of the bed or the quiet or the fact that we're alone—but because every object whispers something about the man I've been slowly falling for. The billionaire genius everyone else sees has disappeared downstairs.
This room belongs to Witt. And somehow, he's invited me into it.
I swallow hard at this grand gesture. And believe me, for Witt, this is grand. No one goes into his office except his family, Dara and me. I never actually thought about it before.
“Should we restart the game?” He asks, his eyes once again on my lips.
I nod.
Slowly, almost shyly, he unbuttons the rest of his shirt while holding my gaze the entire time.
There isn't a trace of arrogance in the gesture.
If anything, he looks more vulnerable than I feel, as though revealing himself is somehow harder than building billion-dollar companies or standing in front of thousands of investors.
When the shirt slips from his shoulders, I forget how to breathe. I’ve seen his bare arms and his legs but never his chest. It’s perfectly cut, like he takes time to be his best self, not because he wants women to drool.
This is Witt, my boss.
The man who memorizes dinosaur preferences four months before a birthday.
The man who notices when I switch mugs.
The man who quietly keeps everyone's favorite snacks stocked without ever mentioning it.
The man who gave me an opportunity to work with something I love.
"You've gone quiet," he murmurs.
"I'm thinking."
"I noticed."
I think he means I’m gawking. How could I not?
"Am I that predictable?"
"No." His forehead rests lightly against mine. "You've become familiar."
I close my eyes. "I like the sound of that."
"So do I."
His lips find mine for the second time tonight, and this one isn’t tentative the way the first one was. It isn’t rushed either. I don’t know who initiated it, maybe both of us.
Kissing Witt feels like a conversation we've been trying to have for weeks, spoken in a language neither of us knew until now. Every gentle touch, every lingering moment, every quiet breath says something words never quite could.
The entire world narrows to heat, breath, and the desperate press of his hands at my waist.
It’s just us.
His hands skate under my pajama shirt and I’m keenly aware that I’m getting ready to have sex with Witt wearing my gaming pajamas. Only me. Only Witt would find it appealing.
“May I?” he asks, gripping the hem of my shirt.
Evidently I can’t speak, so I lift my chin to look at his eyes. His pupils are blown, his lids are hooded as he brings my shirt over my head.
Witt drinks me in like he’s looking at a new game in beta mode, ready to devour it.
Then, almost automatically, my thoughts turn inward.
I become aware of the softness I've spent years trying to disguise. The curves I learned to hide beneath loose sweaters and carefully chosen fabrics. Standing beside Witt has never made me feel small, but suddenly I wonder if he notices every place where I'm not sleek or perfectly put together.
I lower my eyes.
Immediately, his fingers slip gently beneath my chin. "I’ve never said this in my life. Look at me."
"I am."
"No." His thumb brushes softly along my cheek. "You're looking at yourself."
The words steal the air from my lungs.
"I know that look," he says and I catch the quick shift in his expression.
"You do?"
"I've seen it every time you’re given a compliment."
I swallow.
"I’m not looking for perfection." His voice is barely above a whisper. "I’m looking at perfect for me."
Everything inside me melts.
Before I can find words, he pushes my pajama pants down and they pool on the floor around my feet. His hands skim over my full hips and waist but I’m not thinking about how I look right now. I’m thinking about how intimate this is, for both of us.
By the time he lowers me onto the bed, my lips feel swollen and my thoughts have scattered somewhere beyond reach. His forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing too hard, neither of us saying what we should probably say.
Then Witt’s mouth brushes my ear, his voice low enough to make my whole body go still.
“Game on.”