Page 44 of Heat Clickbait
"Astute observation." His accent sharpened the way it did when he was deflecting, consonants more precise. "Though I'd argue it's anticipation rather than nervousness."
I leaned back in my chair, studying the way he held himself, perfectly straight posture that somehow managed to look casual, fingers drumming an invisible pattern against his cup. "You made a spreadsheet for this coffee date, didn't you?"
The slight flush creeping up his neck was answer enough, a tell-tale pink that started at his collar and worked its way toward his ears.
"I made some notes," he admitted, pulling out his phone with the expression of someone confessing to murder. The device looked expensive and pristine, probably protected by three different cases. "Would you like to see the agenda?"
I couldn't help laughing, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet space, earning us a glance from the barista who was clearly trying not to eavesdrop and losing the battle within herself. "Nova, you beautiful disaster, yes, I want to see your coffee date agenda."
He slid his phone across the table with the reverence usually reserved for sacred texts, and there it was, a color-coded schedule for our ninety-minute coffee date, complete with conversation topics, timing markers, and contingency plans for"awkward silences." The organization was breathtaking in its thoroughness.
"Item 3.2: Discuss childhood influences on current relationship dynamics," I read aloud, scrolling through what appeared to be a multi-page document. "Item 4.1: Exchange thoughts on sustainable content creation. Item 5.3: Physical affection checkpoint, hand-holding if comfortable." I paused, looking up at him with growing delight. "You even included buffer time for 'spontaneous conversation development.'"
"Too much?" His vulnerability peeked through the business armor, walls cracking just enough to let real emotion show.
"Perfect," I said, meaning it completely. "Perfectly you."
Something shifted in his expression, walls coming down brick by brick like a careful demolition. His scent deepened, whiskey notes becoming more prominent as his guard dropped. "I've never done this properly. Dating. Getting to know someone without biological imperatives screaming in the background."
The admission hung between us, honest and raw. I could smell the anxiety underneath his usual composed scent, a sharp note that made my omega instincts want to soothe even as my independent streak appreciated his vulnerability.
"The imperatives are still screaming," I pointed out, very aware of how his whiskey-and-leather scent made my hindbrain purr even through three cups of coffee and environmental interference. The suppressants did their job, but they couldn't completely mask the way my body wanted to lean closer, to seek comfort in his alpha presence.
"Yes, but now I can think through them. Plan around them." He gestured to his phone with something approaching reverence. "Structure helps me feel... capable. Like I'm not just biology's puppet dancing to genetic programming."
The honesty in that, the admission of his need for control in a world that often felt chaotic, made my chest tight withunderstanding. We were both fighting different battles against our own natures, him trying to be more than pure instinct, me trying to be less than pure independence.
"Tell me about Item 2.1: Sharing formative memories," I said, settling more comfortably in my chair and wrapping my hands around my own cup, a vanilla latte with an extra shot, because I needed caffeine to match his intensity.
Nova's fingers traced the rim of his cup, a tell I'd learned meant he was choosing his words carefully, probably running through mental drafts before speaking. "My father made me create my first business plan when I was seven. For a lemonade stand."
"Of course he did." The image of tiny Nova hunched over spreadsheets made my heart ache in ways I wasn't prepared for.
"Complete with market analysis and profit projections." His smile turned rueful, eyes distant with memory. "Revenue streams, cost breakdowns, target demographic analysis. I spent three weeks on market research, interviewing neighbors about their citrus preferences and disposable income allocation for children's beverages."
"And this relates to us how?"
"It failed spectacularly." He met my eyes directly, no hiding behind his glasses or accent. "I'd focused so much on the numbers, I forgot to taste the lemonade. It was essentially sweetened battery acid with artificial coloring. Mrs. Henderson from next door bought a cup out of pity and I watched her face..." He shuddered dramatically. "Pure diplomatic suffering."
I could picture it perfectly. Little Nova in probably a pressed shirt and tiny tie, watching his carefully calculated plans crumble because he'd forgotten the most basic element: making something people actually wanted.
"I'm terrified of doing the same thing with you. With us," he continued, voice dropping to something more intimate. "Gettingso caught up in optimizing our relationship that I forget to actually... experience it. That I'll create the perfect theoretical framework for love and miss the actual feeling entirely."
The vulnerability in that admission made me reach across the table without thinking, my fingers finding his. Not Item 5.3 yet according to his schedule, but his hand turned immediately, interlacing our fingers with careful precision that spoke to how much this mattered to him.
"You're experiencing it right now," I pointed out, thumb tracing across his knuckles. "Even with your color-coded agenda. Maybe because of it. This is you, Nova. The planning, the structure… it's not a barrier to connection, it's how you connect."
"Point taken." His thumb traced circles on my palm, each movement deliberate and grounding. "Though I notice you haven't shared a formative memory yet. That's item 2.2 on the agenda."
I took a breath, tasting old hurt mixed with vanilla and caffeine. "My mother used to plan every minute of my day when I was young. Scheduled blocks for homework, play, even bathroom breaks. Color-coded calendars that made your agenda look spontaneous. When she left after her heat crash..." I paused, swallowing the familiar ache. "I threw away every planner, every calendar, every schedule. Swore I'd never let anyone dictate my time again."
"And now you're on a coffee date with someone who scheduled hand-holding," he said quietly, understanding threading through his voice.
"Life's funny that way." I squeezed his fingers, marveling at how right it felt despite everything I'd sworn about independence. "But you're not scheduling my life, Nova. You're organizing yours to include me. There's a difference."
We sat with that for a moment, the coffee shop's ambient music, something acoustic and unobtrusive, filling the space between words. Outside, ordinary people walked past the window living ordinary lives, and for a moment I envied their simplicity before remembering that everyone had their own complications, their own walls and wounds.
"Tell me about the nest PowerPoint," I said eventually, grinning at his surprised expression and the way his entire face seemed to light up with embarrassment and pride. "I know you made one. Crash mentioned color theory and optimal thread counts in a way that suggested traumatic exposure to excessive detail."
