Page 34 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

Not perfect. Not even close to perfect, which is what makes it right. He’s not counting anymore. He’s not tracking footwork. He’s just moving, slow and uncertain, and I’m pressed against his chest and my forehead is against his shoulder and I can feel the steadiness of him, the solidity, and underneath it all that low warmth that seeps through his shirt and into my skin.

We sway.

It’s not really a waltz anymore. It’s not really any dance with a name. It’s just two people, moving slowly to a song that’s playing from a phone on the counter, and nobody is talking and the room is quiet and warm and his hand is on my back and my eyes are closed and I don’t remember closing them.

His neck is warm under my fingers. The skin feels real—because it is real, I have to keep reminding myself. Lab-grown or not, the skin under my hand is human skin, and it’s warm, and my thumb is tracing the line of his collar without my permission.

For about thirty seconds, I forget. I forget about the panel under his ribs and the missing belly button and the fact that he was assembled instead of born. He’s just warm and solid and his hand is on my back and he smells like my laundry detergent because he doesn’t have a scent of his own, and somehow that’s the most intimate thing—he smells like my life. Like he belongs in it.

I can’t remember the last time someone held me like this. Not a hug from Liv, not a squeeze from my mom. Held. Steady and close and unhurried, like we have nowhere to be and nothing to fix, no sinking small business to run. I’d forgotten what this feels like. Or maybe I never knew.

The song changes. Something faster. It breaks the spell.

I pull away. Too fast. Step back, drop his hand, turn toward the kitchen.

“That was better.” My voice sounds strange. “Way better. You just need to do that at the wedding and you’ll be fine.”

I’m opening the fridge. I don’t need anything from the fridge. I’m just opening it because I need to be looking at something that isn’t him.

“Ruby.”

“We should also practice the small talk stuff. Your backstory. Gemma’s cover story. We should run through—”

“Ruby.”

I close the fridge. Turn around. He’s standing where I left him, in the middle of my living room, and he’s looking at me the way he always looks at me, but there’s something in it tonight that’s different, something more—

“I’ve been doing research,” he says.

“On what?”

“On how to be a good boyfriend.”

I lean against the counter. “You don’t have to be a good boyfriend, Aiden. You just have to be a convincing one. For one weekend.”

“I understand that. But I researched it anyway, and I’ve compiled a list of behaviors and practices that are commonly associated with—”

“You made a list?”

“It’s not long.” He pauses. “It’s somewhat long.”

I press my lips together so I don’t laugh. “What’s on the list?”

“Opening doors. Holding her hand in public. Walking on the street side of the sidewalk. Remembering important dates. Active listening—which I believe I already do, but I wanted to verify. Offering emotional support during periods of stress.”

He’s reciting this like a student presenting a book report. Earnest. Thorough. Completely unaware that he’s being devastating.

“And cuddling,” he adds.

“Cuddling?”

“Yes. Multiple sources indicated that cuddling is a significant component of a successful romantic relationship. It releases oxytocin, reduces cortisol levels, and promotes bonding through sustained physical contact.”

“How do you even know what cuddling is?”

“I watched several videos. And I read a thread on Reddit from women describing what they want in a partner, and cuddling was mentioned one hundred and seventeen times across four hundred responses. It seems important.”

I’m gripping the counter behind me so hard my knuckles ache, because this man just told me he went on Reddit and read hundreds of responses from women talking about what they want in a relationship and his takeaway was cuddling is important and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or climb him.