Chapter 05
“Careful,” Finnegan said, quickly grabbing a napkin and helping me wipe the table.
He bent over, his head so close I could almost look straight down at the progress bar hovering above him. The pink was unmistakable now.
The number was flickering again:“? ? ?: 23%“.
My heart gave a sudden jolt.
No, no, no. This couldn’t be right, I thought.
He barely even glanced at me. How could he possibly have an affection bar for me? And why was the number still rising? I thought to myself.
Wait a second, I never actually confirmed if those question marks were about me.
Maybe his progress bar had been for some other girl, and my ability just couldn’t identify it.
Yeah, that had to be it.
I, Persephone, had spent twenty–five years watching guys fall for people, always able to see the numbers and the target right away.
If I couldn’t even read his progress bar, that meant our fate score was basically zero.
Don’t flatter yourself, I told myself.
I took a deep breath and said calmly, “Thanks.”
After he finished wiping the table, he straightened up and glanced at me, just a single glance.
But that look was so light, so fleeting, like a dragonfly skimming the water, the ripples barely had time to spread before he looked away.
And in that split second, I caught the change above his head: “? ? ?: 31%“.
The number had gone up again.
My heart started pounding, and I couldn’t help it.
Calm down, I told myself.
I wasn’t an NPC, so don’t let someone else’s affection bar mess with my head, I reminded myself.
Seriously, I had seen so many guys‘ progress bars over the years.
31%? That was nothing.
Lucian used to get a 3% boost just for picking up milk for a girl.
31% was barely “interested“.
It was nowhere near “head over heels.“
And honestly, if I couldn’t even tell who he was crushing on, was that even real affection?
Maybe he wasn’t into me at all: maybe he was just into the coffee.
Coffee didn’t even have a gender, did it? I thought.
Stop, I told myself.
As the project entered its final month, overtime was just part of the routine.
Our whole temporary team was basically glued
together–ordering takeout, guzzling coffee, squashing bugs, and testing features.
We went from awkward strangers to battle buddies who could roast each other without a second thought.
Between Finnegan and me, we developed this weird sort of unspoken routine.
He knew I’d get hungry around three every afternoon.
So he’d always leave a pack of nuts on my desk ahead of time.
I knew he hated being interrupted while coding.
So I’d save up all my questions and hit him with them all at once.
He knew I didn’t drink Americano, way too bitter for me. I knew that when he got annoyed with code, he’d take off his glasses and rub his temples.
That was when I really shouldn’t bother him.
He knew I was afraid of the dark, so when we worked late, he’d wait for me.
So we could head downstairs together, always walking ahead to press the elevator button for me.
I knew he couldn’t stand noisy places.
So every time the department had a dinner, I’d find him a spot in the corner and tell him, “Just sit here: when you’re done, you can slip out quietly.”
On their own, none of these little things really meant much.
It was just what coworkers did for each other.
But every one of them was like a drop of water, dripping into that little pool in my heart that was almost dried up. The surface was slowly filling up.
I started to feel afraid.
Because I knew better than anyone, catching feelings was the most unfair thing in the world.
When my heart was racing for someone, their affection bar for me might only be a single digit.
I thought there was some kind of spark, some secret understanding, maybe even a hint of something more.
But the numbers never lied.
The numbers had been the coldest truth.
I decided to stop checking Finnegan’s affection bar. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to look: I just didn’t have the guts.
If his affection bar was just a single digit, I’d be disappointed.
If it showed he was falling for some other girl, I’d be even more crushed.
If it were still just question marks, then I wouldn’t even get to be disappointed, because I wouldn’t have a clue who he was actually into.
So I forced myself to switch off my superpower.
It was like putting my phone on Do Not Disturb, no pop–ups, no reminders, nothing to mess with my head. But this whole self–deception thing only lasted three days. On the fourth day, things went south.
That night, our team was running the final big Test before launch.
Everyone was working overtime, and the office was blazing with lights.
Halfway through the test, the server suddenly crashed.
All the data was lost, including the core parameters of the Affection Matrix.
“We’re screwed, we’re screwed, we’re screwed!” the project manager groaned, clutching his head.
“We’ve got to demo for the boss tomorrow! All the data’s gone!” he said in panic.
“Is there a backup?” I asked.
“Yeah, but it’s from three days ago. All the tweaks we’ve made since then will have to be redone from scratch,” he replied.
“How long is that gonna take?” I asked.
“At least all night,” he said.
Everyone in the office let out a collective groan.
I glanced at the clock; it was already nine p.m.
If I stayed up all night and still had to demo for the boss tomorrow, I’d be working over twenty–four hours straight.