The Love Algorithm

Chapter 15: Algorithms in the Wild

Monday morning arrived like it always did — too early, too cold, too full of unread notifications. But this time, something was different.

Est noticed it first in the way he woke up.

Not to his alarm.
But to the soft, distant clink of a mug being placed in the sink.

William.

Still here.

Est blinked against the dim light, momentarily unsure if the weekend had actually happened or if he'd hallucinated an entire series of improbable events — spontaneous greenhouse visits, sarcastic ramen critiques, and that damn golden retriever movie.

But no. The faint scent of William's shampoo — something citrusy and unnecessarily cheerful — still lingered in the hallway.

Est found him at the kitchen island, sleepily stirring sugar into coffee with the wrong end of the spoon.

"You're using the handle," Est said.

William looked down, then grinned sheepishly. "I was wondering why it tasted metallic."

Est didn't smile — not visibly. But something in him tugged at the corners. A response. A ripple.

They left the apartment together but didn't walk side by side. William stayed a few steps behind, letting Est lead — silently acknowledging the boundary between the weekend version of them and the office versions they had to pretend to be.

But the boundary had thinned.

And both of them felt it.

At the office, the world spun on as usual.

Dashboards blinked. Emails flooded. Conference rooms booked and emptied like clockwork.

But Est... noticed things.

He noticed the way William took exactly two packets of sugar now instead of three.
The way he greeted Santa with a tiny bow instead of a dramatic spin, probably because Est had once (mildly) called it "undignified."
The way he always kept one muffin aside — unclaimed, untouched — near Est's desk.

And William? William noticed everything.

He noticed how Est didn't avoid him at lunch anymore.
How Est actually paused before speaking now, like weighing not just what to say but how William might hear it.
How Est's shoulders, once locked like puzzle pieces, had started to lower around him — just enough to let air in.

Lunch on Tuesday became their accidental ritual.

They sat in the far corner of the cafeteria. Est with his neatly packed homemade bento (which William had 100% roasted until he realized Est made it himself), and William with whatever he could convince Santa to share.

William liked to talk while Est listened, though sometimes Est would drop an unexpected line that left William short of breath.

Like Tuesday, midway through a rant about overpriced oat milk.

Est, without looking up:
"My parents used to argue about milk too. Only it was... louder. Less oat-based."

William stopped mid-chew.

Est didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.

William didn't push. Just reached across the table and tapped Est's chopsticks so they fell out of line. "You're allowed to make a mess, you know."

Est simply replied, "So are you," and nudged William's napkin back into place.

They didn't talk about it again.

But they didn't have to.

Wednesday brought chaos.

A bug in the recommendation module sent all match scores into freefall. The team was scrambling, people yelling across desks, whiteboards covered in code that looked like a crime scene.

Est was in his element — calm, focused, fingers flying across his keyboard.

William, not so much. His job wasn't technical, but he tried to be useful — fetching coffee, running interference, making bad jokes to defuse tension. It worked. Mostly.

By 9 p.m., the issue was patched.

Everyone was exhausted.

William flopped into the beanbag in Est's office, groaning dramatically. "Tell me again why we don't fake the matches and go live in Bali?"

Est looked up. "Humidity."

William snorted. "Of course that's your reason."

Est didn't answer, but when William's head lolled to the side, he caught something in Est's eyes — not amusement.

Warmth.

And something dangerously close to fondness.

Friday came faster than expected.

Team dinner was less chaotic this time — fewer drinks, more food. Est actually sat in the middle of the group instead of the edge. He didn't say much, but he didn't flinch either when someone called his name to pass the chili flakes. Progress.

William watched him carefully the whole night. Not obviously — but enough to catch the way Est's hand lingered on the table after a joke, like he wanted to laugh but didn't have the muscle memory for it.

Then someone joked that Est had "definitely been manufactured in a lab."

William turned, grinning, about to jump to his defense — but Est beat him to it.

"I wasn't manufactured," Est said mildly. "Just poorly socialized."

The table erupted in laughter.

William didn't laugh.

He just looked.

And smiled.

Because that... that was progress too.

The weekend came again.

No dramatic sleepovers this time. No confessions in greenhouses.

But on Saturday afternoon, Est sent a message:

"I found a gallery near the old observatory. Temporary exhibit on kinetic sculptures. Thought you might like it."

William stared at the screen for a good ten seconds before replying:

"Be there in twenty."

They didn't hold hands.

They didn't flirt.

They just stood in front of machines made of gears and glass and wind, letting the hum of motion speak for them.

One piece spun endlessly — wheels within wheels. A perpetual motion that defied expectation.

William nudged Est. "Looks like your brain."

Est shook his head. "Looks like yours. Just louder."

They both smiled.

Different smiles.

But somehow — for the first time — matching ones.