We finish the waffles in a comfortable bliss, eating slowly so we can keep talking without rushing. We joke about how sticky syrup would probably ruin the counter if we weren’t careful, and Greg pretends to analyze the waffle texture like a scientist inspecting an experiment. I grin at him—geeky, endearing, infuriatingly perfect.
After breakfast, I clear the plates and wash the dishes while Greg dries. He hums a tune under his breath, and the sight of him here, content and domestic, makes my chest swell with love.
When the dishes are done, we settle on the couch, limbs tangled, just holding each other. I let my head rest on his firm chest and feel his heartbeat under my ear. I could stay like this forever. The warmth, the closeness, the quiet laughter at nothing in particular—it’s intoxicating. Honestly, I haven’t felt truly safe, truly at home, since my parents passed. Until now.
Greg shifts slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I like being here,” he murmurs.
“I like that you’re here,” I reply, fingers threading through his hair.
I smile, heart swelling, and rest back against him. “You’re right. I think Ashley would approve,” I murmur, thinking about my little sister. “Even if she teases me for being a sap.”
We cuddle for a long while. I feel grounded, whole, like I’ve finally found the person who makes all the chaos of my life manageable. With Greg, I can breathe. I can love. I can be ridiculous, flawed—and still be cherished.
By the time we finally pull apart—just enough to get dressed—I feel lighter than I have in months. Maybe years. I glance at Greg, a grin spreading across my face. “So… waffles again tomorrow?”
He grins, adjusting his glasses. “Of course. But I’ll need my waffle iron. Can’t trust anyone else with my perfectsettings.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep being your dorky, perfect self while doing it.”
Greg nudges me gently with his hip. “Always. And maybe,” he adds with a playful glint in his eye, “I’ll sneak in a few surprise toppings just to see your face light up.”
I grin, feeling my chest warm. “You’re impossible.”
He smirks, resting his head against mine. “Always.”
And in that quiet, absurd, perfect little moment, I know this is the start of something I’ve never had before. Something steady, messy, warm, and completely mine.
“Okay, now that we’re dressed…” he says.
I smirk. “Let’s fix that.”
He laughs, pulling me close, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Back to bed?”
“Back to bed,” I confirm.
He wraps one solid arm around me, steering us back toward the bed and a day of sex, naps, and absolutely zero productivity.
20
CTRL+ALT+HAPPY ENDING
GREG
It’s Friday morning, and I’m at my desk, calibrating a stubborn server, when I hear footsteps in the hallway. Small footsteps. Sean.
That little flip in my stomach—like a system reboot with all happiness subroutines active—kicks in immediately.
This week has been… wild, in the best way.
Back and forth between my place and Sean’s tiny studio, me lugging my waffle iron each time like it’s a precious piece of lab equipment, cuddling, sex, cooking breakfasts together, stealing kisses between coffee sips and server updates, and somehow managing to keep both our lives from completely crashing.
He makes me feel things I thought only happened in fairy tales… or video games.
“Morning.” His voice makes my entire body exhale. “I bought you a gift.”
I glance up and nearly short-circuit.
Sean’s holding a sleek white mug with “Ctrl+Alt+Orc” printed above a tiny orc in pixel art, wielding a coffee pot. He’s even remembered how I like it—heavy cream, just a hint of sugar, perfectly balanced.
