Page 101 of Glitched Play

For once, the quiet between us doesn’t feel empty. It feels occupied.

By everything I’m not saying.

By everything she might be hearing anyway.

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.”