The Love Algorithm

Chapter 3: The Salt in the Wound

Elara woke to sunlight and a text from Liam at 6:47 AM.

"Anti‑date #2. Cooking class. 10 AM. Wear something you don't mind ruining. Also, I reread your first novel last night. You underestimated the hero's emotional arc. We need to talk about it."

She stared at the screen. He'd criticized her work. Her first work. The book that had gotten her published, that she'd poured her soul into, that she still secretly thought was her best.

She typed back: "You have no right."

"I have data. The hero's motivation is inconsistent in chapter 14. He's supposed to be afraid of abandonment, but his actions suggest fear of intimacy. Those aren't the same thing."

She wanted to throw her phone across the room. Instead, she grabbed a hoodie and marched to the main house.

---

The cooking class was in his kitchen — a gleaming showroom of stainless steel and marble. Liam stood behind a counter, wearing an apron that looked like it had never been used. He'd laid out ingredients like a science experiment: flour, eggs, butter, salt, all in precise little bowls.

"You're early," he said. "Six minutes. That's new."

"Shut up. What are we making?"

"Pasta. From scratch. It requires patience, precision, and the ability to follow instructions. I'm good at two of those."

"Which two?"

"Precision and instructions. Patience is a work in progress."

They stood side by side. He measured flour. She cracked eggs. Their elbows bumped.

"You're doing it wrong," he said.

"I've made pasta before."

"Not like this. You're overworking the dough. It'll be tough."

"It's supposed to be tough. That's the point."

"The point is texture. You want it elastic, not resilient."

She glared at him. "Did you research this?"

"I watched seventeen videos. The data is clear."

"So you're a pasta expert now?"

"I'm an expert in whatever I decide to learn."

She wanted to argue. Instead, she pressed her palm into the dough, and he did the same. Their hands were inches apart, dusted in flour, and the kitchen was too quiet.

"About your novel," he said, not looking at her.

"Don't."

"The hero — he's afraid of being left, right? But you wrote him like he's afraid of being known. Those are different."

She stopped kneading. "He's afraid of both. That's the point."

"Then you needed a scene where he admits that. You skipped it. You left the reader to guess."

She turned to face him. "And what would you know about being afraid of being known?"

He met her eyes. "I know I've never told anyone about my brother until last night. Not even my therapist. I know that you're the first person who's ever made me want to say it out loud. That's terrifying. That's what your hero should have said."

The dough sat forgotten. The flour dust settled.

Elara's chest ached. She hated him. She hated that he understood.

"Fine," she said. "I'll rewrite it."

"I'll help."

"I don't need your help."

"I know. But I'm offering anyway."

Their hands brushed reaching for the salt. She pulled back first.

The pasta turned out terrible — tough and uneven. They ate it anyway, because neither wanted to admit defeat. He burned his tongue. She laughed. He called her a chaos agent.

She called him a walking spreadsheet.

But when he looked at her, something had shifted. Something raw and unnamed.

---

That night, she opened her laptop and typed the scene she'd been avoiding for ten years.

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