Or ‘sorry’.
Or—
"Wait."I set Buttercup down, ignoring her protest bleat."Let me at least...I have wine.Good wine.Well, decent wine.Okay, it's wine."
"Sage—"
"Please?You drove all the way here.In the middle of the night.Wearing..."I gesture at his outfit."Whatever the nerd equivalent of a power suit is."
"This is just what I was wearing at the office."
"At nine PM?"
"Quarterly reports."
"Oh my god, you're a robot too."I'm already heading for the kitchen."Come on.One glass.Let me thank you for saving my inn from your murderous security system."
"It's not murderous," he calls after me, but I hear him following.
The kitchen glows softly under the moonlight, the chaos finally quiet.
The SafeStay system is no longer channeling HAL 9000.The guests are freed.Buttercup is back in her fleece-lined nest, probably chewing a tea towel like she owns the place.
As for me, I pour two glasses of red—an Oregon Pinot that I’ve been saving for either a personal crisis or a small victory.
Because tonight feels like both.
With Luke Sterling leaning against the butcher block counter, sleeves rolled, collar open, jacket gone, I feel victorious, like I’ve gotten the automaton CEO to relax.
He looks serene, for once.
Human.
Well, almost.
"To surviving the robot uprising," I say, raising my glass.
"To reactive bug patches," he replies, dry as ever—but there's a quirk at the corner of his mouth that almost counts as a smile.
We sip.
For a moment, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
He’s watching me.And I can feel it even in the semi-dark.
“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” I say, tracing my finger around the rim of my glass.
“You called me.”
“I panicked.”
“You trust me when you panic.That’s interesting.”
I blink up at him.He's close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.Close enough that I can smell him—some heady mix of dark wood and expensive soap.
"I shouldn’t have done that,” I say suddenly.“I should have called tech support.That was probably?—"
