“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.
