Page 77 of Level Up for Love

We both shut our mouths at the same time—and then burst into laughter. I didn’t catch a word he said.

Wesley smiles. “Again, but slower? We’ll take turns.”

“Okay.”

“So. The opening frame…”

As he talks, he lays his palm atop my knee and scratches his fingernail idly down the ribbed fabric of my skirt. He gestures animatedly with his other hand, splaying out his fingers as he describes the way I’ve built the world, or tracing them in the air when he outlines the mechanics of the puzzles. Something in my chest squeezes tight enough that I feel myself get a little breathless. I can’t remember the last time I felt this understood—this seen. It’s one thing to hear Mona tell me my game is fun. It’s another matter entirely to listen as Wesley cuts straight to the heart of how my strategies, styles, and skills weave together to make my game work brilliantly. When he shifts to criticisms, some might assume them to be too harsh, but I hear them for what he really means.

You took the easy route with this particular mechanic, but you can handle doing this the hard way.

You can afford to trust your players more than you do.

If you want to compete with me, you need to take this to the next level—but you’re amazingly skilled and more than capable. Challenge yourself.

At the same time, my attention feels split between his thoughtful feedback and the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of my skirt as his fingertips caress the curve of my thigh. I don’t know when this sort of casual touching became normal between us. The Halloween party, maybe?

Regardless, it’s alarmingly easy to settle into.

Hours pass like this: switching spots between his laptop and my computer, playing each other’s games and working on our own, brainstorming over cold pizza on the couch. I’ve been making good progress on Afterwards over the past few weeks, but tonight feels different. Errors are especially glaring, solutions click into place more quickly, and Wesley is able to identify problems that I spent days fumbling through on my own.

I’m almost frustrated I didn’t let him play earlier, when he first asked. I could have gotten further so much faster.

Long past midnight, I feel like my eyeballs are about to melt out of my head, but I’m still playing. We haven’t touched the beer, but I’m absolutely buzzed—with energy, inspiration, and something like anticipation. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Wesley, so I pad over to the office and pause in the doorway.

He sits with his chin propped in his palm. He’s not even playing the game anymore; he’s just watching the colors shift as the orange and purple clouds glide across the screen and admiring the way the red-scarfed wanderer idles around, sometimes lifting her hand to shield her eyes as she peers into the distance. His eyes are half lidded and dreamy, and I doubt he even realizes he’s smiling. I can imagine the bittersweet, whimsical background music tinkling in his ears.

Slowly, decisively, I feel a different puzzle piece click into place.

I have to slip the headset off his ears to finally get his attention. He blinks a few times, like he’s waking up. “God—sorry. I got distracted.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “How late is it?”

“Almost one.”

“Fuck. I should go.”

Gently, I reach down and run my fingers through his hair, erasing the indent left by the bulky headset. I have to wet my lips before I say, “You don’t have to.”

“My brain is totally fried, Reagan. I can’t work anymore—”

“We don’t have to work.”

He looks at me evenly, his eyes so dark I feel like I could fall right into them. “Do you want to play another game?”

I lean back onto my desk and stretch out my legs in front of me; my calf brushes against his where my ankles cross near the base of the chair. “No,” I say. “No more games.”

Wesley’s body goes taut with tension. He rises out of the chair, and I half expect him to turn on his heel and walk out, but he stands utterly still. His hands drift up, then drop to rest on the tops of my thighs. His fingers feel stiff, like he’s trying to restrain himself from doing anything further, but then he guides my legs apart so that he can step between them.

Wesley arches his neck down so that his disheveled hair falls into his eyes. Gently, he brushes his forehead against mine, tracing the sharp line of his nose across the curve of my cheek. Through lowered lashes, I watch him worry his bottom lip between his teeth while he keeps his gaze latched to my mouth.

“Yes?” he murmurs.

I nod.

He rests his hands on either side of my face, and his palms are warm against my skin despite how my cheeks feel on fire. His fingers curl behind my neck, teasing the small hairs at the base of my scalp, while his thumbs sweep back and forth under my eyes, over my freckles. With a touch of pressure, Wesley lifts my face upward toward his and holds me there.

My legs ache with the strain of holding my position on the desk, and my neck starts to burn at the sharp angle Wesley has it tilted. I wish I could claim that gym soreness is what’s making my knees feel so weak, but I know it’s the way he’s studying me with that dark, thoughtful gaze. I’m impatient for him to make a move, any move.

“Please,” I breathe.