The outside air was warm and still as we stepped through the turnstiles into the late afternoon sun. "Thai sounds good," Luke said, swinging his keys around one finger as we crossed the main walkway. "Anywhere specific, or are we driving until we see neon?" "I know a spot six minutes downtown," I said. "Near the rail depot. Green awning, unpretentious, excellent pad see ew." "Lead on," he said, nodding toward where his dark pickup was parked two rows past my hatchback. "I'll follow your bumper." I sent him the intersection over text before pulling out of the lot. His truck stayed two car lengths behind me the whole way down the access road, matching my speed through the yellow lights until we both found curb parking half a block from the restaurant. The place was narrow and quiet, smelling of crushed peanuts, roasted chili, and garlic. A ceiling fan rotated lazily overhead. We took a small booth against the exposed brick near the front windows. Luke picked up his laminated menu, leaning an elbow against the wood. "Pad see ew, huh? Bold claim about excellence." "I don't make unsubstantiated claims, Hayes. It's a standard." "Fair enough." He skimmed the page with an amused look. "Panang curry for me. Extra spice." "Living dangerously." "I like to keep life interesting." The server took our orders and left a pitcher of ice water on the table. Without the metal frame of the test rig between us, the rhythm of the conversation didn't collapse—it just drifted outward, settling into an easy, unhurried pace. "So," I said, pouring water into both glasses. "Is Landon always that enthusiastic about assembling particle board?" Luke let out a low laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Unfortunately. Standard older-brother confidence. He genuinely believes being two years older gives him inherent authority over flat-pack engineering." "Does it?" "We ended up with three structural screws on the rug and a shelf that sags slightly to the left. You tell me." "A passing grade, according to your weekend telemetry." "Passing is passing, Mercer." Luke smiled, leaning back against the vinyl seat. "What about Jess? Does she give you engineering advice?" "Jess is nineteen and studying psychology," I said. "Her advice usually consists of informing me that my routines are manifestations of control issues." "Is she wrong?" "She weaponized a textbook against me while eating my cereal," I countered. "Her methodology is suspect." "Sounds like she keeps you grounded." "She keeps my living room cluttered with highlighters." Luke watched me, his expression relaxed, an easy curiosity resting in his hazel eyes. "Landon did ask me one thing while we were fighting that bookcase." "What?" "He wanted to know how anyone has time to calibrate a bathroom mirror for pollen counts on a Saturday afternoon." "I simplified it for non-technical comprehension," I corrected, defensive on principle. "It's particulate matter. And the sensor was underperforming." "Right. Crucial distinction." Luke picked up his glass, taking a slow sip. "Which brings me to a question I've been meaning to ask: how much of your apartment is currently wired into a terminal?" "Most of it." Luke stopped, glass halfway back to the table. "Most of it?" "Lights, climate, power monitoring, door locks, scheduled routines." "Claire." "It runs through NELL," I added, as if that explained the entire architectural framework. Luke looked at me for three long seconds. "Who is Nell?" "Networked Environment and Logistics Liaison. My home automation system." "You named your house." "Technically, I named the distributed system managing the house." "That clarification somehow made it worse." A slow, delighted grin spread across his face. "Does your house have opinions, Mercer?" "She has algorithms. And very strict opinions about inventory management." "Truly, the height of technical ambition." "You haven't heard about the toaster," I noted. Luke lowered his glass carefully. "I'm sorry?" "It's also networked." "Of course it is." "I modified the firmware." "Why?" "It was underperforming." He stared at me across the small booth. "At toast?" "Yes." "I need you to understand that every answer is making this worse." "It has custom heating profiles," I defended, though my mouth twitched. "Bread density varies." "Incredible," Luke murmured, shaking his head. "I'm having curry with a digital warlord." The food arrived, steaming and fragrant, cutting off my defense. The pad see ew was wide, savory, and perfectly charred, and Luke took a testing bite of his curry before nodding in quiet concession. "Okay," he admitted. "You were right about the food." "Naturally." I took a bite of my noodles. "What about you? When you're not wrestling defective motor mounts at Asteron, what do you do that doesn't involve Landon’s questionable carpentry?" Luke paused with his fork resting against his plate. "I tinker, mostly. I’ve got a workbench set up in my garage. Old radios, mainly." I tilted my head, surprised. "Radios? Like vacuum tubes?" "Yeah. Late thirties, mid-forties consoles. Philco, Zenith, RCA." His tone shifted slightly. Not guarded. Just softer. "Modern hardware is all integrated circuits and board traces. It's clean, but it's cold. Those old cabinets were built by hand. Heavy transformers, point-to-point wiring, glass tubes that take ten seconds to warm up before the speaker catches the frequency." "And you get them running?" "Most of them. There's something satisfying about taking something that hasn't made a sound in sixty years, replacing three paper capacitors, and pulling a clear AM broadcast out of the air." He looked across the table at me, that self-deprecating smile returning. "A little lower-tech than your pollen-sensing mirror, maybe." "It’s not lower-tech," I said, meaning it. "It's just analog." "Yeah," he said softly. "It's analog." We ate in a steady, comfortable quiet for a few minutes. The restaurant around us began to clear out as the dinner rush moved on, leaving only two other tables occupied near the back. We split an order of mango sticky rice, trading small stories about terrible early internships, bad road trips, and the specific brand of frustration that comes with tracking down hardware faults that only happen when nobody is looking. It was simple. Uncomplicated. By the time the bill came, the streetlamps outside were glowing amber against the dusk. Luke reached for the black vinyl folder, but I beat him to it by two inches, sliding my card inside. "Mercer," he warned. "I picked the place," I said, handing it to the server as she passed. "You can pay when we go somewhere you choose." Luke leaned back, his eyebrows lifting. "Is that an agreement to future dinners?" "It's sound financial management, Hayes." "Convenient." Ten minutes later, we walked out onto the sidewalk. The night air was cool, carrying a faint breeze from the west. The street traffic had slowed to an occasional passing car, their headlights sweeping across the brick storefronts. We walked together down the quiet block toward our vehicles. Luke stopped beside the driver's door of my hatchback, shoving his hands loosely into the pockets of his canvas jacket. He looked down at me, the casual teasing from dinner giving way to something steadier, more deliberate. "Thanks for dinner, Claire," he said. "Thanks for listening to me explain my toaster," I answered, keys already in my hand. He smiled, but he didn't step back toward his truck. He took half a step closer, close enough that the space between us felt quiet, intentional, and entirely removed from Lab 7. "I'd like to do this again," he said. "We usually have to eat," I pointed out. "Not like that." Luke held my gaze, his voice calm, unhurried, and perfectly clear. "This Friday. Dinner. But I'm asking you on a date." I looked at him. The word hung between us in the cool evening air—solid, unambiguous, and completely free of asterisks. "Okay," I said. Luke's mouth twitched at the corner. "Okay?" "Do you need a more complicated answer?" "Not particularly." "Then yes," I said. "Friday." His grin returned, slow and genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Good. I'll pick the place." "I have high standards, Hayes." "I'm aware, Mercer." He stepped back toward the curb, giving my car door a light tap with his knuckles. "Drive safe. See you at the badge readers tomorrow." "Tomorrow." I got into the car, clicked my seatbelt into place, and started the engine. As I pulled out into the lane, Luke’s truck rumbled to life behind me, turning in the opposite direction toward the highway. I checked my rearview mirror once, then set my eyes on the road ahead.

Chapter 12: Off-Menu