Page 149 of Glitched Play

“I’ll handle it.”

It seems like we’ve walked a mile to get to the penthouse. The pavilion is a fair distance from the executive elevators. Then it requires a key to get to the penthouse.

The doors open, humming softly.

It’s silent.

No cameras or music. No fans cheering or gamers screaming directions to their teammates. Exactly what I need—quiet after the storm.

He sits my heels on the marble countertop.

“So… So…”

He never stammers. Witt says exactly what he means. It’s one of the things I love about him, he always, always is clear in his directions after he’s listened.

“I hope I didn’t put you in an awkward position.”

“You put us both right smack dab in the middle of awkward.”

His hands slide over my arms. “Do you regret it?”

I push to my toes and slip my hands around the back of his neck. “Not even if I lost my job. That kiss was worth it. You’re worth it.”

He awards me with a gentle smile. “Good, because I don’t regret it either.”

I don’t know who moves first. Maybe him. Maybe me. Maybe both of us finally stop pretending there’s any distance left to protect. All I know is that one second we’re laughing, and the next his mouth is on mine, soft at first, then certain, like we’ve been working toward this exact rhythm without saying it out loud.

It isn’t frantic. It isn’t desperate. It’s quieter than that. Sweeter. Our lips move together with the strange, careful joy of two people discovering they’ve already crossed into something real. Something unnamed, maybe, but not uncertain.

We haven’t said what we are. We haven’t drawn a line around it or given it a label. But as his hand tightens around mine and he smiles against my mouth, I think maybe we don’t have to.

Maybe this is the answer.

Maybe we’re already in it.

Witt exhales as we pull apart.

I turn, pulling my hair over one shoulder.

“Would you unzip me?”

He sucks in the breath he just let out and folds one hand over my shoulder and the other slowly tugs on the pull, slow and reverent, like he’s cataloging the moment.

The dress loosens.

I let out a sigh of relief and spin back to face him, holding my dress against my chest. “Oh, I can finally breathe.”

“Does Maci Hart require oxygen?”

“I do.”

He smiles.

“Do billionaires?” I ask with as much playfulness as I can muster when I’m running on fumes.

“I do. Tomorrow, I’m going to have an oxygen bar installed.”

I laugh.