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The PerComm buzzes again. Another message: "Confirmation of protocol compliance required within 24 hours."

I pick up the device, my thumb hovering over the response field. The cursor blinks, waiting for my acknowledgment, my promise to step back, to reduce her to nothing more than data points in a study.

I can't. Not yet.

I rehearse my speech as I walk to The Love Roast. The words taste like ash in my mouth: "Vanessa, I need to focus on my work." Or maybe: "This is moving too fast." All the standard human break-up lines I've documented over months of research.

My PerComm buzzes. Another message from Command, no doubt. I silence it without looking.

The café's pink and red Valentine's decorations mock me through the window. Vanessa moves behind the counter, her dark hair catching the morning light. She's explaining something to a customer, her hands animated, a slight smile playing at her lips.

My rehearsed speech evaporates.

I push open the door. The smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries mingles with her perfume.

I steady myself, falling back into my normal pattern of interaction with her.

"Good morning. I'd like to observe your morning rush patterns, if you don't mind."

"Our what?" she asks, something bitter in her voice.

"The social dynamics during peak hours. It's fascinating how humans cluster around caffeine distribution points."

It soon becomes apparent I said, or did, something wrong. She's cold to me in a way I've never felt before. As the morning rush continues, I observe as her jaw clenches and her muscles stiffen when she glances at me.

Once the full house of customers thins out, I decide to make my move. Her speech is stilted and full of anger; not the way I want this conversation to go.

"I apologize if I've caused offense. My behavior this morning was... inappropriate. Not the professional boundaries—those were necessary—but my failure to acknowledge what happened between us."

"Go on." The tension from her is so thick, yet I can sense a need from her to hear me out.

"Would you go out with me tomorrow? I'd like to explain myself properly."

I try, and though she seems open to it, her words show she's still hanging onto some form of bitterness. Despite it all, I need her to understand. To know how much I care for her.

So, I broach the topic of another date. One more personal, that can let me have that time I need to talk to her.

"Fine. Dinner." Vanessa is still showing signs of being closed off, but there's a hint of hope in her speech.

"I promise you won't regret it."

CHAPTER12

VANESSA

Istep into the pristine kitchen, my fingers fidgeting with the strings of the borrowed apron. The space is intimate - just two cooking stations set up with gleaming utensils and fresh ingredients.

"I should warn you, I burn water," I say, eyeing the sharp knives warily. "My culinary expertise ends at pouring coffee."

Jack's hand brushes my lower back as he guides me to our station. "That's why we're here. I thought it would be interesting to observe- I mean, to learn something new together."

"Is that what anthropologists do for fun? Study people while they fail at cooking?"

"Only the fascinating ones." His eyes lock with mine, sending a flutter through my stomach that has nothing to do with food.

The instructor, a petite woman with graying hair, claps her hands. "Today we're making coq au vin! First, let's break down our chickens."

"Break down?" My knife hovers uncertainly over the bird. "I usually just order mine pre-broken."