Page 33 of Glitched Play

My heart bumps against my ribs.

"No?"

"No, you don't need to leave." His answer comes fast, almost too fast, but he still doesn’t step around the island. He stays planted there like I’m a sudden pop-up window in the middle of a system update, unexpected and impossible to ignore.

"Okay." I tuck a damp strand of hair behind my ear, which does absolutely nothing because the entire thing falls right back into my face. The kitchen is too quiet, too spotless, too expensive, and I am standing in the middle of it in pajamas on the night before my first day at the biggest job of my life. Naturally, my mouth keeps going. "Because you look like someone broke into your house and reorganized your organs."

His brow furrows like he’s actually testing the sentence for accuracy instead of recognizing it as panic-disguised-as-humor.

"That's not anatomically possible."

I bite my lip to keep from smiling, because of course that’s the part he focuses on. "Right."

His attention shifts back to my box, and I become painfully aware of the thick black marker scrawled across the side. In this kitchen, where every mug faces the same direction and every surface looks untouched, my packing system feels less quirky and more like evidence against me.

"Why is it labeled More Important Stuff?"

"Because Important Stuff was already full."

His gaze drops to the box again. It's like watching someone run a diagnostic on a cardboard container. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. I have no idea if I've earned points for honesty or just made the world's smartest man question my sanity.

"That doesn't answer the question."

"It answers it enough."

His mouth twitches, barely there, but enough that the tightness in my shoulders eases a fraction. Maybe I haven’t ruined the penthouse. Maybe I haven’t ruined my first day before it even starts. Maybe Witt O’Ryan is capable of finding cardboard-box chaos mildly entertaining.

Barely.

But I see it.

For some reason, that tiny almost-smile feels like winning a secret achievement.

I step farther into the kitchen and grab my mug from the counter. The second my fingers curl around it, I become painfully aware of the row of identical black mugs behind me. Mine looks ridiculous next to them, white with tiny pixel hearts and one small chip near the handle from when I dropped it during a tournament stream two years ago.

"I'll keep this in my room," I say.

"Why?"

"Because it looks out of place."

He glances at the mug. Then, with the driest tone I've ever heard, says, "You haven't met my sister Noelle."

I laugh before I can stop myself.

The sound bounces through the kitchen, too loud in his quiet space, and I immediately press my lips together. But Witt doesn't look annoyed. He looks...curious. Like my laugh is a bug in the system he hasn't decided whether to patch or study.

"She decorated?" I ask.

"Parts of it."

"Which parts?"

"The parts with any color. She’ll love it."

I look around and notice a throw blanket draped over one chair, a framed photo on the shelf, and a small ceramic football painted with what looks like tiny handprints.

"Let me guess. You didn't choose the tiny football."