Page 107 of Glitched Play

Standing this close to him still surprises me.

He's everything people never expect when they hear the word gamer. No colorful hair like mine. No slouched posture from years behind a keyboard. Just broad shoulders beneath his day-old white cotton button-down, a chest that fills the shirt in ways I definitely shouldn't be noticing, and a body built more like one of his football-playing brothers than a billionaire who spends his life creating worlds on computer screens.

He reaches for my hand.

"Come with me." His voice is rough from sleep, low enough that it slips straight beneath my skin.

Every logical part of my brain reminds me I should probably hesitate.

This is his bedroom.

His space.

The one place in the penthouse that belongs completely to Witt.

Instead, my fingers tighten around his, and I follow.

He leads me down the hall and up the short floating staircase without another word. The house is almost completely dark, the only streak of light coming from the moon spilling through the massive windows overlooking Austin. Even his footsteps are quieter up here, like this floor understands it belongs to him.

As soon as we step through the doorway, a small lamp on the nightstand glows softly to life, triggered by a motion sensor instead of a switch. I grin because that’s more efficient. The warm amber light doesn't brighten the whole room. Just enough to reveal pieces of it, almost as if his bedroom is introducing itself one detail at a time.

It's unmistakably Witt.

Everything has a purpose.

Nothing is excessive.

The bed is perfectly made, the corners crisp enough to bounce a quarter. A charcoal blanket is folded with military precision across the foot, and every line in the room seems intentional, clean, uncomplicated. The rest disappears into shadow, leaving me to wonder what secrets daylight keeps hidden.

My eyes drift across the dresser.

There's a framed photograph of what looks like his family sitting near the corner, but from here I can't make out the faces. Something about it catches my attention anyway. Maybe it's the way it's tucked slightly behind another object instead of displayed proudly in the center.

In the corner, three dark leather boxes are stacked from largest to smallest with mathematical precision, each one perfectly aligned with the edge of the nightstand. On one of the nightstands sits a crooked ceramic bowl, glazed unevenly in shades of blue and green. One side sags lower than the other, the rim lopsided in a way only tiny hands could create.

It doesn't belong in this immaculate room.

Which means...

It probably belongs here more than anything else.

Standing inside his bedroom feels strangely intimate—not because of the bed or the quiet or the fact that we're alone—but because every object whispers something about the man I've been slowly falling for. The billionaire genius everyone else sees has disappeared downstairs.

This room belongs to Witt. And somehow, he's invited me into it.

I swallow hard at this grand gesture. And believe me, for Witt, this is grand. No one goes into his office except his family, Dara and me. I never actually thought about it before.

“Should we restart the game?” He asks, his eyes once again on my lips.

I nod.

Slowly, almost shyly, he unbuttons the rest of his shirt while holding my gaze the entire time. There isn't a trace of arrogance in the gesture. If anything, he looks more vulnerable than I feel, as though revealing himself is somehow harder than building billion-dollar companies or standing in front of thousands of investors.

When the shirt slips from his shoulders, I forget how to breathe. I’ve seen his bare arms and his legs but never his chest. It’s perfectly cut, like he takes time to be his best self, not because he wants women to drool.

This is Witt, my boss.

The man who memorizes dinosaur preferences four months before a birthday.