“What? Yeah. Fine. Why?”
She’s watching me with the hint of a smile, as if she knows exactly what my circuits are doing and finds it extremely entertaining. “Because you’ve been staring at the same line of code for ten minutes without blinking.”
“That’s not true.” I blink three times in rapid succession as proof.
She laughs. “You’re allowed to talk to me about non-work related things, Logan. I told you three days ago you’re not a malfunctioning robot. Don’t prove me wrong now.”
Questions that have nothing to do with work immediately pop into my head. Like,what does it mean, that you kissed me? What are we now? Are we friends who sometimes kiss each other on the face? Are we still ‘not complicated,’ or does that mean something different after the kiss?
But none of that makes it out of my mouth. All I come out with is, “The simulation’s holding at a hundred percent for the last cycle. Not a single error.” I drag myself back to the present. “The stress test is almost boring at this point.”
She comes over, crowding into my personal space, which is now—apparently—her space too. She clicks around the data, eyebrow arched. “Boring is what we want. If a system isn’t boring under stress, that’s how you end up on a conference call with the FDA.”
“Yeah, good point.” I try to focus on the screen. I really do. But then I catch her scent—vanilla and coffee—and my brain short-circuits.
It’s her old scent. Not the unfamiliar floral thing she came back from Sweden wearing.
She’s back. The real her.
I’m lightheaded. Dizzy. Is this what people mean by being drunk on someone? Is that a real thing, or did pop songs trick me into believing it?
She leans in, practically shoulder to shoulder with me. “You were right, by the way.”
I swallow. “About what?”
“My projection. Your hybrid algorithm is more stable than mine,” she says. Her arm is right up against mine. If I moved even slightly, we’d be touching. “I ran a few iterations with your threshold logic last night. I didn’t want to admit it, but you basically wrecked my math curve.”
It’s supposed to be a little jab. I think she even means it as a compliment disguised as a challenge. But the way she says it, with her lips curving on just the right side of smug, makes my whole brain start blinking warning lights.
“Your math curve was never in danger,” I say, and it’s almost true. She’s smarter than me. Just in a different direction. Her mind is all elegance and clarity, patterns that feel like music even when they’re just lines of code. I could watch her work forever. And have, basically.
She bumps my arm. “Don’t get modest on me. If you want, we can take a break for a bit. It’s getting close to dinnertime, and we both skipped lunch.”
I’m about to say yes—like, emphatically yes, let us take a break so you can maybe kiss me again, possibly even somewhere that isn’t my cheek and I won’t even try to block it—when my phone buzzes in the weird insistent way reserved for the workgroup chat. I try to ignore it, but Audrey glances at the phone, then at me.
“You should check that. Landon’s been wound pretty tight today.”
She’s right. I tap on the screen and instantly regret it.
Landon:
heads up, everyone—first clinical sim results are officially blowing up. want full team in conf room A for rapid fire review @ 5:30
Bennett:
Dinner included. Serena’s bringing food from that Italian place everyone liked last time.
Layla:
The one with the good breadsticks?
Caleb:
Obviously. Who do you think she is?
Bennett:
Did you ask her to get extra? Logan eats like a teenager going through a growth spurt.
