Page 103 of Glitched Play

I look down at her and realize she trusts me enough to sleep without guarding herself. No careful smile. No confident posture. No quick answer ready in case someone challenges her. She is simply Maci, curled into the corner of my couch with her silvery-pink hair falling across her cheek and a crease from the pillow forming near her mouth.

She feels safe.

With me.

The thought lands harder than it should.

For most of my life, I have assumed love looks loud. My brothers wrestle and insult each other until someone gets hurt. Birdie hugs people before they finish saying hello. Noelle cries when she’s happy, sad, proud, or tired. Parker announces every emotion the moment it enters his body, often at an unacceptable volume. Sutton nurtures everyone, the family, the team, the employees, always making them feel like she’s one of them.

I don’t do any of those things because I’m not like them.

I organize.

I remember.

I notice when someone stops drinking the coffee they usually order or when Dad rubs his knee before it rains. I keep Birdie’s preferred tea in my pantry even though she never asks for it. I bought Witley’s birthday present four months early because she mentioned dinosaurs once.

Until Maci, I wasn’t sure those things counted.

She told me they did.

You show love quietly.

The sentence has been playing on repeat inside my head, and every time it does, something shifts. Not enough to understand. Just enough to acknowledge.

Maybe love isn’t defined by volume.

Maybe it’s measured by attention.

If that’s true, then I am in serious trouble.

I know how Maci takes her coffee—three birthday cake creamers and two sugars like every day is a party. She’s basically drinking dessert. I know which pretzels she prefers and that she organizes her desk before she can think through a difficult problem. I know she laughs louder when she’s tired and goes quiet when she believes she has disappointed someone.

I know her decorative mug has a small chip near the handle.

I know she watches baking competitions even though she doesn’t bake.

I know she relaxes when I make her laugh.

I know too much.

Not because I was collecting data.

Because every detail stayed.

My gaze moves toward the hallway where my bedroom waits. For two years, that room has been the safest place in the penthouse. Nobody enters without permission. Nothing changes position. No voices interrupt the silence.

Tonight, it seems less appealing than this couch.

That should concern me.

Instead, I reach over to adjust the pillow beneath her head because her neck is angled incorrectly. I tell myself, she won’t be efficient at work if she has a crick in her neck.

She mumbles something.

I lean closer, trying to understand.

“Too much fondant,” she whispers.