Spring crept in reluctantly.
The piles of dirty snow along the curbs shrank. The air lost its knife-edge, softening into something that hinted—just hinted—at warmth.
On a Tuesday morning in late April, Olivia’s mother sent her a photo.
A blurry shot of the community garden near the center. A row of raised beds, soil tilled. A thin green sprout breaking through.
*Ma*: he made the tomatoes come early.
Olivia smirked.
> I’m pretty sure that was the sun, she replied. > Or global warming.
*Ma*: no. your friend. > he gave them some… light thing. very fancy. looks like robot lamps.
She blinked.
> Wait what? she wrote. > He installed grow lights?
*Ma*: something like that. > said “pilot” and “low-energy LEDs.” > your uncle says he’s trying to make us all vegetarian.
Olivia snorted.
> Doubtful, she sent. > He eats more bacon than Marco.
*Ma*: come see. bring him. > we make tacos. vegetarian *and* real.
She shook her head, half exasperated, half fond.
Jake, when she forwarded him the photo, replied with a string of plant emojis and: *The board wanted another “community use case.” I wanted your mom to have basil in June. Win-win.*
That, she thought, was something she’d never expected: her boyfriend installing grow lights in her childhood community garden as part of a pilot program.
Life was weird.
And, increasingly, intertwined.
That night, over reheated pad thai at his place, she brought it up.
“You know my mother thinks you literally control the seasons now,” she said, poking a noodle.
He grinned.
“I told her I don’t do rain,” he said. “Just photons.”
“You realize,” she said, “the optics of TerraNova installing sensors and lights in a neighborhood garden are… complicated.”
“I didn’t put logos on the raised beds,” he said. “Or slap a QR code on the tomatoes. It’s… one pilot. With full board approval. And… selfishly… I like knowing your block gets fresh cilantro without having to pay Whole Foods prices.”
She chewed thoughtfully.
“I’m not… mad,” she said. “I’m just… hyper-aware. There’s a line between ‘tech that serves a community’ and ‘tech that colonizes a community.’ I…” She gestured vaguely. “Want to make sure you see it.”
He sobered.
“I do,” he said. “That’s why I made sure the board’s community reps signed off first. Why the center director is the one deciding who gets plots. Why we’re not… collecting anything beyond ‘number of hours lights are on.’”
“Good,” she said. “Because if I see a headline about ‘TerraNova’s Smart Garden Revolution,’ I’m going to vomit.”
He laughed.
“I’ll instruct marketing to use ‘TerraNova’s Not Stupid Growing Lights’ instead,” he said.
She smiled, shook her head.
“Don’t tempt them,” she said.
He reached across the table, brushed a stray noodle off her lip with his thumb.
Her breath caught.
“You have…” he said, then smirked. “Sorry. It was going to drive me crazy otherwise.”
“You’re weird,” she said, heat creeping up her neck.
“You like me weird,” he said.
She didn’t argue.
***
Not everything was hummus and basil, though.
The deeper they got into this… thing, the more old scars surfaced.
One afternoon, she was halfway through writing a piece on a new pilot in the Bronx—an open-source alternative to one of TerraNova’s route planners—when an IM from Ben popped up.
> *Ben*: hey, heads up. > Jake’s team just pitched me an exclusive on their “Smart Resilience” initiative. > You cool if I take it? Or is that stepping on your toes?
Her fingers paused over the keys.
“Smart Resilience” had been a phrase Jake had tossed around in bed the past week, almost absentmindedly.
An internal project name for something he wasn’t ready to talk about yet.
She’d teased him, called it “sexy disaster branding.”
He’d laughed.
He hadn’t said he was going to pitch it to Ben.
Her stomach did a small, unpleasant flip.
> *Olivia*: that’s your beat now. > go for it. > just… remember to ask who “resilience” is for.
> *Ben*: always. > thx.
She stared at the chat window long after it closed.
Her phone buzzed.
*Jake*.
> Ben just pinged you? he wrote. > About “Smart Resilience”?
> Yes, she replied. > Fun name. > Sounds like a gym class.
> Very sweaty, he sent. > I meant to give you a heads-up. > Got buried under a fire drill with the Toronto deployment.
> It’s fine, she wrote. > He asked. I answered.
> You don’t owe me exclusives.
> I know I don’t *owe* you, he replied. > I… want to make sure you never feel like I’m… keeping things from you.
> We said no more surprises.
Her chest tightened.
> It wasn’t a surprise, she typed. > Not really. > Just… a reminder.
> Of? he asked.
She hesitated.
> That I’m not… your conduit anymore, she wrote. > To the world. > And you’re not… mine.
Three dots.
> You miss it? he asked.
She let out a breath.
> Sometimes, she wrote. > And sometimes I’m relieved not to be the first call when your code breaks.
> I miss you yelling at me in interviews, he sent. > Now I just get… Ben’s earnest eyes.
> It’s unsettling.
She snorted.
> You’re the one who told Ethics you were okay with a handoff, she replied. > Remember?
> I remember, he wrote. > Still… adjusting.
> Also, for the record, I told Ben he should talk to you for context. > So you’re still in the loop. > Just… not the only one.
Warmth soothed the small sting in her chest.
> That’s all I want, she wrote. > To be… in the loop. > Not… looped through.
> Deal, he sent.
Later, after Ben’s piece on “Smart Resilience” went live—an actually solid look at how TerraNova was redesigning its failure protocols—Jake showed up at her apartment with a bag of groceries.
“What’s this?” she asked, taking in the canvas bag stuffed with kale and tofu and something that looked suspiciously like tempeh.
“Peace offering,” he said. “Also, my mother called and said if she heard I ate one more takeout burger she would disown me.”
“You realize,” she said, rummaging, “I now have multiple people in my life nagging me about your cholesterol.”
“Circle of life,” he said.
They made stir-fry together in her tiny kitchen, bumping hips and elbows, laughing when he splashed soy sauce on his shirt.
It was messy.
Domestic.
And, weirdly, went a long way toward smoothing the rough patch from that afternoon.
He wasn’t hers professionally anymore.
But he was here.
Hands on her cutting board. Mouth on her neck when she reached for the salt.
It didn’t erase the weirdness.
It made it feel… navigable.
***
The weirdness went both ways.
On a video call with his Canada team one morning, Jake had to stop himself from snapping when one of the engineers said, “Oh, I saw that Metro article about you—guess they’re in love with our oversight board now, huh?”
“It’s not about love,” he said tightly. “It’s about checks and balances.”
“Sure,” the engineer said. “I just mean… you used to be the headline. Now it’s all about committees.”
“That’s the goal,” he said, more sharply than he meant.
After the call, Aisha lingered.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
She sat on the edge of his desk.
“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re… twitchy.”
He sighed.
“Liv’s… coverage is changing,” he said. “Less… me. More… board. System.”
“That’s… good,” Aisha said. “Spread the attention. Spread the pressure.”
“I know,” he said. “My rational brain knows. My… idiot monkey brain… misses being the center of the story.”
Aisha snorted.
“At least you’re self-aware,” she said. “Also, you have a girlfriend now. You can’t also be the protagonist of every narrative. Pick one.”
He laughed, despite himself.
“Is that in the leadership handbook?” he asked.
“It is now,” she said. “Chapter One: Get therapy. Chapter Two: Get over yourself.”
He smirked.
“I’m working on both,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Now stop staring at the Metro homepage and review this deployment plan.”
He rolled his eyes, but turned to his screen.
As he skimmed routes and failure trees, he thought about load.
On the grid.
On the systems.
On his relationship.
He’d spent so long being *the* node that everything connected to.
Now there were other nodes.
That stung.
And freed him.
He could handle both.
If he was careful.
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