Chapter 17: First Date Trials
I stand in front of my closet, towel around my waist, heart thumping with a mix of excitement and dread. Tonight's the night—my first real date since this whole leveling-up journey began. Earlier today, one of my new matches (a girl named Eliza who loves indie games and baking) agreed to meet for dinner. We bantered a bit in the app about pie flavors and favorite RPGs, and her vibe was friendly, even fun. Now that it's actually happening, my nerves are staging a mutiny.
Steam from my shower still clings to the air as I flip through hangers, trying to decide what to wear. The Dating System, of course, is eager to help; a pop-up appears in my peripheral vision, a checklist titled in bold font:
First Date Quest – Objectives:
Arrive on time (Punctuality is polite!)
Give a genuine compliment
Maintain eye contact (and smile!)
It's like a literal to-do list for how to not mess up a date. I find it equal parts endearing and exasperating. "Alright, alright," I mutter, acknowledging the tips.
I settle on a crisp light-blue button-down (the same one I wore during my mall makeover, now freshly pressed) and dark jeans that strike a nice balance between casual and put-together. A quick spritz of the cologne sample Marcus insisted I get—warm cedar with a hint of citrus—and I'm good to go. I catch a whiff and hope it's not overpowering. The System gives no red alerts, so I assume I'm safe.
As I dress, I tick through the checklist mentally. Arrive on time: I've got plenty of buffer; the restaurant is only a 10-minute walk, and I've planned to get there early. Compliment: I'll find something genuine, maybe about her laugh or her style, when it feels right. Eye contact: Noted—just don't stare like a creep, John.
I run a comb through my hair, hands slightly unsteady. Catching my reflection, I see a guy who looks ready, but the flutter in my stomach says otherwise. It's that familiar pre-boss-fight anxiety, the kind you get right before entering an RPG dungeon for the first time. I've prepared all I can; now I have to actually do the thing.
"Wish me luck," I whisper, not sure if I'm talking to myself or the System. The System responds with a simple ping! and a thumbs-up icon. Thanks, I guess.
The restaurant is a cozy little Italian bistro, the kind with checkered tablecloths and candles on each table. I arrive ten minutes early, as planned, and the host seats me at our reserved spot. Soft instrumental music plays in the background, mingling with the mouthwatering aroma of tomato sauce, garlic, and freshly baked bread. The warm lighting from vintage sconces gives everything a gentle glow. It's romantic as heck, and that only makes my heart thud harder.
I wipe my palms on my jeans under the table, taking a few deep breaths like I practiced. You got this. It's just a date. A friendly dinner. The System's checklist hovers subtly, the first item "Arrive on time" already checked off in green. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at myself; this is what I've come to—finding solace in a UI interface.
When Eliza walks in, I spot her immediately. She's a petite brunette with curly hair and a warm smile that puts me slightly at ease. She's wearing a pretty green blouse that brings out her hazel eyes. I stand (without knocking over my chair, success) and greet her with what I hope is a confident smile.
"Hi, Eliza?" I say.
She smiles back. "Hi, Johnathon."
We do a brief, slightly awkward side-hug of greeting (is that normal for a first date? It kind of just happened), and then we both sit. My heart is hammering, but I remind myself: smile, breathe.
"You look great," I blurt out, then flush because it sounds so generic. Compliment—okay, objective two. But was that genuine enough? It was true; she does look great, casual yet cute, but I worry it sounded copy-paste.
Her cheeks dimple as she smiles. "Oh, thank you. So do you—oh my gosh, I love your jacket." She gestures to the olive-green jacket I decided to wear over my shirt (my trusty new favorite from the mall quest).
I grin, a bit of tension melting. "Thanks. It's kind of my lucky jacket now."
She tilts her head. "Lucky?"
I laugh lightly. "Long story, but let's just say it was part of a recent self-improvement kick."
"Well, it's working," she says kindly.
The waiter swings by, and we occupy ourselves with menus for a moment. It helps me gather my thoughts. So far, so good: I'm on time, I've complimented her (technically), and I'm not hiding behind the menu, so eye contact: check.
We order drinks (just sodas—neither of us apparently felt like alcohol to add to nerves). As the waiter leaves, there's a tiny lull in conversation and I feel panic tickle the back of my mind. Time to deploy an opener.
"So, how was your day?" we both ask in unison, then laugh. The shared moment of humor breaks the ice further.
"You first," I say.
She launches into a little anecdote about how she had to reschedule a client meeting to make it here tonight, and her boss gave her a knowing wink when she realized it was for a date. My ears perk at that—Eliza was evidently excited enough to tell co-workers about this meeting. That thought is oddly flattering and eases my nerves.
I share a bit about my day at the office too (nothing thrilling, just the usual code monkey stuff, lightly framed as me "heroically squashing software bugs"). She giggles at that.
Our conversation finds a natural rhythm. We swap stories about our favorite childhood video games, debate the best pie flavors (she's Team Apple; I'm Team Cherry), and commiserate over the struggle of maintaining houseplants alive. At one point I admit my last cactus died of thirst and she jokes that I'm a "cactus killer"—which sounds like a villain name from a western. I retort that the cactus was probably an "elite boss cactus" that no newbie plant owner could defeat. It's silly and we both laugh.
Midway through the main course—pasta primavera for her, chicken parm for me—I notice how at ease I am. There's still a current of nerves under the surface, but it's manageable. I even catch myself enjoying the company.
When the waiter refills our water glasses, I nearly create a disaster: I gesture while talking about a funny office incident and almost elbow my full water glass. It wobbles precariously. In a split-second, I lunge and catch it. Only a few drops slosh out onto the table. Eliza's eyes widen, then we both burst out laughing as I mop up the spill with my napkin.
"Sorry, I talk with my hands," I say, a bit embarrassed.
"No worries. I do the same thing. We're lucky you're quick!" she smiles, tapping her glass to indicate no harm done.
I feel a familiar subtle ping in my mind—like the System acknowledging I just passed an agility check or something—but I ignore it. Focus on her, not the interface.
The System does try to butt in a couple of times with those infamous corny joke suggestions ("Tell her the joke about the spaghetti seeking pasta-tive feedback!"). I firmly blink them away. Not tonight, System. I've got it handled.
Instead, I share an anecdote from my recent adventures—edited heavily to omit any magical dating interface, of course. I tell Eliza about how I was once so nervous before a date that I fumbled a soda can all over myself mere minutes before meeting the girl. (I'm referring to the System's soda prank without naming it as such.) "I walked into the cafe looking like I'd lost a water balloon fight," I say with a self-deprecating chuckle.
Eliza covers her mouth, eyes shining with mirth. "Oh no! What did you do?"
"Well," I grin, "I pretended it was the latest fashion trend in wet-look shirts. She didn't buy it."
She laughs, a melodic sound that makes me feel proud for drawing it out. "That's one way to make a first impression."
"Right? Surprisingly, there was no second date," I joke.
Our plates are mostly empty now. The conversation has stayed lively—no painfully long pauses, no glaring red flags. If this were purely about technique, I'd say I'm acing the quest. But there's something else I'm monitoring: my own feelings. And as nice as this is... I don't feel that spark. The chemistry is friendly, comfortable, but not especially charged or romantic. I'm having fun, but in the way you have fun chatting with a kind coworker or a friend of a friend.
I catch myself searching my feelings (perhaps the System's influence making me hyper-aware). Am I sabotaging it by overanalyzing? Or is it just not a love connection and that's okay? I'm not sure.
What I do know is I want to end the night kindly and honestly, because Eliza deserves that.
We decline dessert, both claiming we're absolutely stuffed. I take care of the check (she offers to split, but I insist—chivalry or at least the semblance of it, right?). Outside the restaurant, the city night air is cool and refreshing. The streets are quieter now, a few people strolling, the glow of streetlights reflecting off the pavement.
We stand under one such lamp for a moment, facing each other. She looks a touch nervous again, maybe wondering if I'm going to try for a kiss or if this is goodbye. Honestly, I'm not sure myself until I open my mouth.
"Thank you for tonight," I say sincerely. "I had a great time. You're really easy to talk to."
Her shoulders seem to relax. "I had a great time too. And hey, no wardrobe casualties," she teases.
I chuckle. "Major success on that front."
She shifts her weight, and there's a gentle understanding in her eyes. "Maybe we can do this again sometime, as friends even, if that's okay?"
Her frankness catches me off guard for a second, but then I recognize it: she feels it too—the lack of romantic spark. Rather than disappointment, I feel relief and respect for her directness.
"Yeah," I nod, smiling. "I'd like that."
We exchange a quick hug—it's warm, appreciative, not charged with unspoken desire or anything dramatic, and that's perfectly fine.
"Good luck... with everything," Eliza says, and I get the sense she means my dating quest in general, as if she somehow knows I'm on a journey. Or maybe I'm reading into it.
"Good luck to you too," I reply earnestly.
With that, we part ways—she heads toward the subway, and I start the walk back to my place. As she disappears around the corner, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
I did it. First date quest: more or less successfully completed. No meltdowns, no tragedies, just two people sharing a pleasant evening.
A subtle chime rings in my ears and the System's text flickers into view: "First Date completed. Well done, hero." There's even a little 8-bit heart icon next to the words. I can't help but grin at the gamified pat on the back.
It feels like defeating a boss in a game, only to realize it was a mid-boss and the real challenges (and rewards) lie ahead. I'm happy—proud, even—that I got through it with dignity and kindness. But I'm also thoughtful. Because while I gained experience points tonight, I also gained clarity: I don't just want to go on dates for the sake of ticking off quests. I want that real connection—the kind that might have been absent tonight.
Still, as first boss fights go, I'd call this a win. I walk home under the city lights, feeling lighter, more confident, and ready for whatever the System has in store next.
Chapter 18: Loot and Lessons
Later that night, I collapse onto my couch, loosening the collar of my shirt and finally kicking off those slightly uncomfortable "nice" shoes. A sigh escapes me—equal parts exhaustion and relief. I made it through the first date intact. In fact, by any objective measure, it went well. So why do I feel this weird hollowness mixed in with my pride?
Before I can delve too deep into that thought, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. It's a text from Marcus:
Marcus: Yo!! Status report?? How'd the date go?? Need deets, bro.
I chuckle and text back with tired fingers:
Me: It went pretty well. No disasters. I'm alive. 😅
The response bubbles appear almost instantly as he types:
Marcus: That's what's up! Did you guys kiss or what? 😏
Me: Lol, no kiss. But it was nice. Honestly, think we vibed more as friends.
He responds with a half-dozen shocked emojis and Marcus:"What?! But you're a dating adventurer now! jkjk" followed by, "Proud of you for getting out there. First of many."
I smile at his over-the-top encouragement. Then another text comes in:
Marcus: So... did she drop any epic loot? 😂
I snort aloud, imagining Eliza vanishing in a puff of smoke leaving behind a treasure chest. Trust Marcus to make an RPG joke out of my love life.
Me: Just some XP and a +1 to Confidence, I think. I'll grind for better loot next boss. 😜
He sends back a string of laughing GIFs and a final "Get some sleep, player one. GG."
Shaking my head affectionately, I set the phone down. The apartment is quiet around me. Outside my window, the distant city sounds have dulled to a low hum. I shrug off my jacket and sink deeper into the couch cushions.
Almost on cue, the Dating System springs to life in my vision, as if sensing the "boss battle" is truly over. A large, ornate chest materializes in midair—my eyes widen in surprise. With a fanfare jingle (think classic victory music), the chest pops open and a cascade of golden light spills out. The theatrics make me laugh; it's like I'm in a one-man video game celebration.
Floating text appears:
Quest Complete: First Real Date
Rewards:+200 XP, Dating Skill +1
Item Acquired:Boost of Confidence (temporary buff)
I let out an impressed whistle at the XP chunk. A little icon of a heart with an up-arrow hovers, indicating some "Dating Skill" stat increased—whatever that specifically means, I'll take it. And there's a shiny icon of a golden heart labeled "Boost of Confidence" spinning slowly before fading away (presumably applied to my status). The System is really leaning into the RPG aesthetic tonight.
"Alright, alright, good job me," I say softly, giving a mock little bow to the empty room. Despite the cheesiness, I can't help but grin. Gamified praise or not, I know I did something important tonight: I put myself out there and treated someone well. And I leveled up, in more ways than one.
As the celebratory graphics clear, the System UI remains open, awaiting my input or reflection. My smile lingers but fades a touch as I replay the evening in my mind—not the events, but the feelings. I did everything "right": followed the quest advice, kept my cool, made her laugh, acted like a gentleman. Yet when I think about Eliza, I don't feel a tug on my heartstrings or butterflies or any of that electric chemistry people write sonnets about. If dating were just about completing tasks, I'd be golden. But it's not, is it?
I rub my face, feeling the honesty of the thought sinking in. The truth is, I don't want dating to just be a series of quests to grind. Not forever. Sure, the System has made it fun and structured to get me out of my rut, but tonight I realized something: I want that real connection. The kind that isn't measurable in XP or stat points. The kind that might actually hurt if it fails, but means something if it succeeds.
I open my stat screen out of habit, and indeed I see improvements: my Confidence stat is higher than it's ever been, Charisma up, even a new entry for "Dating Skill" with a small level indicator. It's objectively satisfying. But it doesn't fully capture the nuanced brew of emotions in me right now.
Scrolling through the quest log, I see Main Quest: Secure a Real Date – Completed with a shiny checkmark. There's a sense of finality to it. As I highlight it, a new message fades into view in a fancy italic script:
Recalibrating goals...
I raise an eyebrow. The Main Quest section updates almost dramatically, letters rearranging themselves:
New Main Quest: Find a Meaningful Connection.
My breath catches for a second. The System actually put a name to what I'm feeling. "Find a Meaningful Connection." A quest, yes, but also an affirmation that the real endgame here isn't just dates or numbers—it's love, in whatever form that might take. Something real.
I whisper the quest title aloud, tasting the words. A meaningful connection. That's the true prize, isn't it? The System might view it as the ultimate quest reward, but to me it's more than that—it's the very reason I downloaded those stupid apps in the first place, before I ever knew about this strange gamified path. I wanted genuine companionship, a partner in crime, someone to care about who cares about me back.
For the first time, the System and I are completely on the same page.
I tap accept on that new Main Quest with a small smile. The interface blinks a cheerful acknowledgment and then finally dims, perhaps realizing I need rest.
I stretch out on the couch, too tired to even move to the bed just yet. My mind drifts over the past couple of weeks—how much has changed. I'm not that lonely, invisible guy endlessly swiping in a dark room anymore. I have momentum now, confidence hard-won through actual experiences. I also have a clearer idea of what I want.
Tonight's date might not have been a grand romance, but it taught me an invaluable lesson: leveling up isn't just about ticking off quests. It's about understanding myself better and honing in on what truly matters to me.
My phone buzzes quietly again—one more text from Marcus: "Seriously proud of you, man. Night!" I send back a simple "Thanks. 🙏 Night!" and set the phone aside for good.
As I finally drag myself off the couch and towards bed, I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror. I look tired, yes, but also content. There's a subtle confidence in my eyes that wasn't there before. The "Boost of Confidence" buff, no doubt—but also the inner knowledge that I can handle this, that I deserve something real and I'm on the path to finding it.
"C'mon, hero, bedtime," I murmur to myself with a smirk, echoing the System's occasional use of that word.
Slipping under the covers, I let my heavy eyes close. The city might be an endless quest itself, full of challenges and unknowns, but I'm leveling up for it. And somewhere out there, maybe there's a Sierra or someone like her—my mind flickers to that cooking class I've yet to attend—who could be the connection I'm looking for.
With that hopeful thought, I drift off, the new Main Quest shining softly in the back of my mind like a guiding star for the chapters ahead.
Chapter 19: Enter Sierra
At a weekend cooking class quest (the System encouraged me to pick up a hobby to meet like-minded people), my journey intersects with Sierra's for the first time.
The classroom kitchen is bathed in late-morning sunlight. The rich scent of tomatoes and basil fills the air as about a dozen of us stand at our stations, aprons tied tight. Chef Antonio—our instructor—is animatedly explaining how to make the perfect marinara, but I'm only half listening. My attention is partly on the simmering pot in front of me, and partly on the slight nervous flutter in my chest. This is my first "social activity" quest, after all.
I'm in the middle of clumsily chopping an onion when I fumble the knife angle. Onion bits slide askew; my technique is definitely more "novice" than "chef." I huff under my breath, trying to recall Antonio's demonstration.
Suddenly, a warm, friendly voice pipes up to my right. "Here, hold the knife like this."
I look over and meet sparkling green eyes. A woman at the next station has stepped over, and now she's gently adjusting my grip on the knife. I'm struck first by her smile—confident yet kind—and then by the jolt of electricity that runs through me when our eyes meet. It's like my heart forgets its rhythm for a beat and then thuds back double-time.
She's about my age, maybe a tad older, with chestnut hair pulled into a loose ponytail and a few escaped strands framing her face. There's a smear of tomato sauce on her apron and a hint of flour on her cheek, which somehow makes her even more endearing.
"Like this?" I manage to ask, keeping my eyes on the onion because I'm suddenly afraid I might blush if I stare directly at her dazzling smile for too long.
"Better," she says, and I hear the grin in her voice. "You were about to lose a finger the way you were going."
I laugh, the tension easing. "That obvious, huh? I'm John, by the way."
"Sierra," she introduces herself, still lightly holding my hand to guide the knife. Her name rings in my ears like a melody.
A ping! goes off in my vision, almost making me jump. In bold letters, the System declares: Potential Match Detected – New Quest: Introduce Yourself to Sierra. No kidding, System—I'm way ahead of you.
Quest or no quest, I'm already captivated. I shyly initiate more conversation as she helps me dice the onion properly. "So, Sierra... what lured you to a Saturday morning cooking class? Hoping to master the art of onion chopping too?"
She laughs—a lovely, lilting sound. "Something like that. I moved here a couple months ago and figured a class would be a fun way to meet people. And I love cooking. Plus, you know," she gestures at the ingredients around us, "free lunch."
"Hard to argue with that," I grin. Internally, I'm astonished at how easy it feels to talk to her. There's none of the usual clawing anxiety I get with attractive strangers. Maybe it's the casual context, or maybe it's something special about Sierra's aura—warm and unpretentious.
As we continue with the class, we naturally end up as cooking partners. Chef Antonio instructs everyone to pair up for a pasta sauce exercise, and Sierra slides right into place beside me. We trade small talk between stirring pots and chopping herbs. I learn she grew up in a different state (hence the move) and works in marketing for a nonprofit. She mentions she has a weakness for homemade pasta and bad puns. I throw one out ("Our sauce is pastably the best in class!") and she actually laughs—a bright, genuine laugh that makes my pulse flutter proudly.
Ding! The System adds a playful commentary when she laughs: Critical Hit: Charisma! I nearly snort at the timing, but Sierra just cocks her head adorably, not seeing the interface that I do.
We bond over a small sauce disaster—our marinara in progress nearly scalds because we get too caught up chatting about favorite comfort foods. When she admits an embarrassing love for cheesy romance novels, I confess my own guilty pleasure: terrible FMV video games from the 90s. We exchange stories of our most epic kitchen fails (hers: an exploded blender of gazpacho; mine: the infamous risotto incident Marcus loves to tease about).
All the while, something stirs in me that I haven't felt on any date or social encounter so far: a lightness, a sense of click. I'm actually enjoying myself without over-relying on System prompts. In fact, I barely notice the System at all beyond a few subtle, encouraging blips like "Quest Progress: 50% – Keep it up!" which I dismiss without breaking conversation.
By class end, our table is a mess of chopped veggies and sauce splatters, but we've produced two respectable plates of pasta. Everyone else is chatting and tasting each other's dishes, but I'm only focused on Sierra's smiling face as she takes a bite of our creation.
"Mmm," she closes her eyes theatrically. "We didn't burn the kitchen down. I call that a win."
I chuckle. "High score."
As we're packing up to leave, Sierra turns to me, a little hesitantly. "I really had fun cooking with you. Think you'd want to maybe exchange recipes or, I dunno, try another class sometime?"
It takes effort not to break into the goofiest grin. "I'd love that. Here—" I pull out my phone. "Let's exchange numbers. You know, for... recipe emergencies."
She hands me her phone in return, and we trade contact info. I notice she adds a little pasta emoji next to my name in her phone. Cute.
The System practically cartwheels in my vision: Quest Complete: Meet Sierra – +100 XP, Sierra's Affection +10%. A little pixel heart meter appears briefly, indicating her affection level. Whoa, the System hasn't shown a specific person's "affection" before. 10% after one meeting? I can't help but be delighted—both at the interface and the implication.
We drift outside together, still chatting about the class. The midday sun is bright, and Sierra squints adorably until she slips on a pair of sunglasses. We linger at the sidewalk where we'll have to part ways.
"So, I'll text you that risotto recipe," I promise.
She gives a small laugh. "Only if you promise to follow it to the letter. I don't want to be responsible for any more rice casualties."
"Scout's honor," I say, holding up three fingers in oath.
There's a brief pause, one of those comfortable silences where you're both kind of basking in the moment. Butterflies—that must be what this fluttery feeling is. I'm reluctant to end our conversation, but I don't want to seem pushy either.
Sierra fixes me with a warm look. "I'm really glad I came today."
My throat tightens a bit with a rush of feeling. "Me too," I manage.
We exchange a gentle goodbye—just a friendly wave and a "see you soon"—and then she's off down the sidewalk, tote bag of tupperware swinging by her side. I stand there for a moment, almost dumbfounded by how well that went and how simply... wonderful I feel.
As I turn and start walking home, I realize I'm grinning ear to ear. The System's affection meter for Sierra is faintly visible in the corner of my view, showing 10%. It's silly, but I find myself wanting to raise that number. Like, a lot.
More importantly, I leave with butterflies dancing in my stomach and a singular thought bouncing happily in my mind: this connection with Sierra might be the meaningful one I've been questing for.
Chapter 20: New Quest, New Feelings
It's astonishing how quickly someone can become a bright spot in your life. In the days following that cooking class, Sierra is that bright spot for me. We start texting that very evening—just a casual exchange of a recipe or two at first, but it soon blossoms into a lively back-and-forth. By Wednesday, I'm sneaking glances at my phone at work, grinning like an idiot at her witty replies. We joke about our sauce rescue, share pictures of the somewhat misshapen cupcakes she attempted (they fell flat, literally, and we have a good laugh over it), and I even send her a selfie of my lopsided omelet from Tuesday's dinner (she rates it a 5/10 but gives me an A for effort).
With each text from her, I feel a giddy flutter in my chest. And apparently, I'm not the only one tracking it—whenever Sierra's name pops up on my phone, a tiny heart icon appears in my HUD, inching a little fuller. It seems the System has a heart-meter for her, gradually filling from that initial 10%. Seeing a numerical nudge on something as intangible as affection is equal parts strange and thrilling. I have to resist the urge to focus on those numbers; I want this to unfold naturally, not as some min-maxing stat exercise. Still, it's nice to see tangible proof that I'm doing something right.
One evening mid-week, as I'm lying in bed scrolling through our message thread (for the tenth time), a new System notification pings softly:
Main Quest Updated: Nurture the Connection with Sierra – Build Trust and Affection.
A warm glow spreads through me. This isn't just a generic "date" quest; it's personal, with her name right there. I tap it to read the details:
"Spend quality time with Sierra, listen and share, deepen your bond. Quest success measured in mutual trust and affection."
For once, a quest description reads less like a game and more like genuine life advice. And instead of feeling pressured or gamified, it feels... meaningful. This is exactly what I want to do.
That same night, I gather the courage to ask her out—casually, of course. I recall her mentioning the local farmer's market during class, how she hasn't been yet and would love to go. So I craft a text:
Me: "Hey, thinking of checking out the farmer's market on Saturday morning. Would you want to come along? Could be fun (and maybe we'll find better tomatoes than the ones we saved) 😄"
I hit send and immediately toss the phone aside like a hot potato, my heart in my throat. Minutes later, it buzzes:
Sierra: "That sounds great! I've been meaning to go. Count me in. 😁"
I do a silent fist-pump in the air. The heart-meter in my HUD ticks up a tiny notch, but I'm way more excited about the actual prospect of seeing her again.
Saturday morning arrives with clear skies and a gentle autumn breeze. I get to the downtown farmer's market early, a reusable tote slung over my shoulder and a bundle of nervous energy coiled in my stomach. The market is already alive: stalls overflowing with brightly colored produce, vendors calling out daily specials, families and couples milling about sampling honey or nibbling on baked goods. The crisp scent of apples is in the air—there's an orchard stand nearby with dozens of varieties, and I can literally smell the sweetness.
I pick up two crisp Braeburn apples from a bin, thinking they might be a nice snack for later. As I pay the vendor, I catch myself checking my reflection in a display mirror behind a jar of honey. I'm wearing a simple navy sweater (hopefully accentuating my shoulders a bit) and well-fitted jeans; casual, but I tried to look put-together. The System had popped up a small suggestion panel while I was dressing—tips like "Comfortable footwear (lots of walking)" and "Blue looks good on you (Confidence +5%)." I chuckled at that, but followed the advice.
A flicker at the edge of my vision shows a quest progress bar barely filled—5% or so—just from the act of planning this outing. It labels: "Farmer's Market Outing – 0% -> 5% (Prepared)." I roll my eyes slightly; alright, System, let's see how I do when Sierra gets here.
As if on cue, I spot her approaching through the crowd. Sierra is wearing a light green cardigan and jeans, with her hair down today, loose waves catching the sunlight. She's carrying a coffee cup in one hand and waving with the other as soon as she sees me.
I wave back, heart skipping happily. "Hey! You made it," I call out, moving to meet her.
"Hi, John!" she greets me with that brilliant smile. We naturally lean in for a quick hug—it's only been a week, but it feels so easy and welcome. Her hair smells faintly of jasmine as we briefly embrace, and I have to remind myself to let go before it becomes awkward.
"I brought you one," she says, holding up a second coffee cup I hadn't noticed. "Latte, two sugars. I recall someone saying they can't survive weekends without them." She winks.
I am absurdly touched that she remembered my coffee preference from some offhand text. "You're officially my hero this morning," I say, accepting the cup. Our fingers brush during the handoff, a small contact that sends a pleasant little jolt up my arm.
We begin strolling through the market side by side. The stalls present endless conversation fodder. At a bakery stand, Sierra insists I try a sample of almond croissant. We end up splitting one, powdered sugar dusting our fingers. When I get a bit on my nose without realizing, she laughs and reaches up to brush it off with her thumb—a gesture so gentle it makes my chest ache in the best way.
We wander past a flower stall bursting with sunflowers and dahlias. "Oh, these are my favorite," she gushes, pausing to admire the sunflowers. The golden blooms reflect in her eyes as she looks closely. On impulse, I purchase one from the vendor—a giant, cheerful sunflower—and hand it to her.
"For you," I say, suddenly shy. "To thank you for the coffee, and, you know... for coming today."
She lights up, accepting the flower. "John, that's so sweet." She cradles it carefully, and I notice a tiny blush on her cheeks. The heart-meter in my HUD jumps a notch, but I'm more focused on the genuine gratitude on her face.
As we continue exploring, conversation flows effortlessly. We talk about foods we loved as kids (she has a weakness for homemade cherry pie; I admit my endless love for mac and cheese). We compare notes on our jobs—she tells a funny story about misaddressing an email at her new office and causing mild chaos, I share how I once broke a build at work by missing a semicolon in code, sending my team scrambling.
Every now and then, the System offers a subtle suggestion for topics—like a hovering bullet point "Ask about her family" or "Share a childhood memory." Sometimes I follow the nudge if it feels right, but more often I'm coming up with things to say on my own. It's a freeing realization: I don't need it to hold my hand. I'm genuinely interested in her, and that guides me better than any script.
When we stop at the orchard stand, I remember the apples I bought. "Almost forgot," I say, pulling them out of my tote. "I got these before you came. Want one?"
She takes an apple, and we clink them together in a mock toast before biting in. It's juicy and tart, and we both let out sounds of approval at the same time, then laugh.
"You have a little..." she points to the corner of her own mouth. I feel the sticky apple juice on my lip and wipe it, embarrassed.
"Did I get it?"
She shakes her head, eyes dancing. "Other side."
I try again, but apparently I smear it worse. With a playful roll of her eyes, Sierra steps closer and reaches up with her sleeve to dab it for me. The closeness freezes me in place; I can see the tiny specks of amber in her green eyes. My heart might as well be doing backflips. The moment is brief—two seconds, maybe—but my cheeks warm from more than just the autumn sunshine.
"Th-thanks," I stutter softly.
She smiles, and for a heartbeat, we just look at each other. There's a comfortable silence, filled with things unspoken yet somehow understood. My hand twitches with the impulse to hold hers, but I hesitate.
I notice the System flicker at the edge of my awareness: Quest Progress: 50% – Keep it up! it encourages. It even throws in a tiny pixelated heart bouncing upward. I mentally swat it away, focusing back on Sierra.
We end up sitting on a bench at the edge of the market, listening to a street guitarist play a gentle tune. Sierra has her sunflower on her lap, and I catch her twirling it slowly as she talks about her hopes of exploring the city more, maybe finding a good hiking trail nearby to satisfy a bit of her outdoorsy side.
I offer to show her a trail I know just outside the city sometime, and her eyes light up. "I'd love that," she says, and I believe her.
Time has a funny way of flowing when you're happy—it feels both slow and too fast. Slow in the sense that I notice every detail: the warmth of the sun on my face, the sound of her laughter mixing with the guitar music, the subtle, sweet scent of the flower in her hands. Too fast because before I know it, the vendors are packing up and the morning has slipped toward afternoon.
We reluctantly walk back towards where we first met up, near the market's entrance. Her apartment is apparently a short walk east, mine a subway ride west. We stop at the crossroads of our parting.
"Today was really wonderful," Sierra says, turning to me. She hugs the sunflower and our eyes meet. I feel that gentle thump in my chest again.
"It was," I agree, and then muster a bit of boldness. "I'd like to do it again. With you. Anything—doesn't have to be farmer's market. Maybe that hike we talked about, or... I don't know, even just grab coffee sometime without the shopping."
Her answering smile could melt the polar ice caps. "I'd like that a lot."
We stand there for an awkward second where it feels like something should happen. I see her shift her weight slightly, that subtle lean in. Without overthinking (for once), I step forward and open my arms. She steps into the hug easily.
It's a gentle embrace, not too tight, but significant all the same. I feel the side of her head rest briefly against my shoulder. My heart is hammering, and I'm glad she can't see my face because I'm sure I'm wearing the dopiest grin. She smells like coffee and apples and a hint of that jasmine again.
I don't want to let go too soon, but also not hold on too long. We separate naturally after a couple of heartbeats. Her cheeks have that faint rosy tint again.
"I'll message you," I promise, voice a tad softer than usual.
"You better," she teases lightly. "Otherwise I might have to actually learn to cook risotto without you."
I laugh, feeling my face heat up a bit at the reference. "We can't have that."
With a final exchanged smile, we part ways. I watch her for a moment as she goes, sunflower in hand, until she glances back and catches me. She gives a little wave. I wave back, caught and unashamed.
As I head toward the subway, I feel like I'm walking on clouds. The System dutifully records the outcome: a notification pops up, showing Sierra's affection meter now perhaps around 25%, and the quest status bar well past the halfway mark. But for once, I barely pay it heed. The real reward is the hope swelling in my chest.
Heart full and optimistic, I replay that parting hug over and over in my mind. If this is what a budding connection feels like, I never want this quest to end.
Chapter 21: Side Quests of the Heart
Over the next couple of weeks, life feels like it's accelerating in the best way. I'm not only investing in my budding connection with Sierra, but I'm also tackling personal "side quests" that I might've shied away from before. It's as if her presence—and the confidence I've gained—have opened up my world beyond the narrow focus it used to have.
One evening while texting, Sierra offhandedly mentions her love for live music. She tells me about an outdoor concert series in the park she used to go to back home and how she misses the energy of it. That conversation sticks with me. In the past, I'd nod along and probably never act on it—crowded concerts have never been my scene. But now, I find myself on a ticket site later that night, impulsively purchasing two passes to an upcoming indie rock show downtown.
The System instantly tags this as a side quest: "New Side Quest: Expand Your Interests – Attend a Live Concert." It's like it can sense I'm pushing my boundaries. And yeah, I'm nervous about it. So I do what any sensible newbie concert-goer would: I rope in my extrovert buddy.
"Indie rock? You?" Marcus nearly drops his protein shake when I invite him.
I laugh. "Hey, people change. Or at least, I'm trying to."
He slaps my back. "Count me in. This I gotta see."
So on a Friday night, Marcus and I head to The Soundery—a popular concert venue that I've never set foot in. The moment we step inside, the bass thrums through my chest. It's dark except for the pulse of neon lights slicing across the packed crowd. The air is warm, tinged with that unmistakable concert mix of spilled beer and dozens of bodies jumping in unison.
My first instinct is a spike of anxiety. A crowd this size has always made me skittish. We squeeze toward a middle spot, and people are pressed in on all sides. I can barely hear myself think over the opening band's guitar riff. For a second, I consider retreat: the exit sign is visible behind us, and part of me yearns for the open night air.
Marcus notices my wide eyes and leans in. "You good?" he shouts over the music.
I swallow and nod, forcing a smile. "Y-yeah! Totally!"
The System pings softly: "Challenge: endure the crowd for 10 minutes." It even starts a timer. Leave it to the System to gamify my claustrophobia.
I decide to stick it out. Song by song, I acclimate. I start by just nodding along to the music. Marcus, of course, is head-bobbing and cheering like he was born here. His enthusiasm is contagious. When the main act hits the stage—a band I've literally never heard of but pretended to like when buying tickets—the crowd goes wild. A cheer erupts, we all surge forward a half-step, and suddenly I'm part of this collective sea of people who are really into it.
And then, something clicks: I begin to enjoy myself. The band is actually good, their sound energetic and melodic. I feel the drumbeat in my bones and find myself jumping along to a chorus with everyone else. I catch Marcus giving me a thumbs-up and a grin that says "Told you so." I laugh, adrenaline pumping.
Midway through the set, as the lead singer belts out a particularly catchy refrain, I realize I'm genuinely having fun—in a crowd, at a loud concert, something past-Johnathon would have flat-out avoided. There's a thrill in it, being part of this communal energy. Who knew?
By the time the final encore ends, I'm sweaty, my ears are ringing, and I'm exhilarated. Marcus and I stumble out with the dispersing crowd into the cool midnight air, and I feel victorious. The System apparently agrees: a notification floats by:
Achievement Unlocked: Concert Survivor – Social Stamina +1
I chuckle at that, rubbing my neck. Marcus is rambling on about his favorite song of the night, and I actually have opinions to share. We debate which band member had the best stage presence as we make our way home.
Later that night, I lie in bed and text Sierra about the concert.
Me: "So... I did a thing tonight. Went to a live concert 😅. Crowds and all."
She responds almost immediately:
Sierra: "What! Mr. 'I avoid crowds' went to a rock concert? Who even are you? 😂"
Me: "I know, right? It actually turned out awesome. I'm kinda proud of myself."
Sierra: "You should be! That's awesome, John. Look at you, all adventurous these days."
Adventurous. The word makes me smile. If only she knew that part of my courage came from wanting to impress her a little (and, okay, to prove to myself I could do it). I drift to sleep with that conversation warm in my mind.
The next week, I tackle another side quest—this one in the office. Inspired by all this momentum, I volunteer to present an idea in our team meeting, something I'd normally let my more outspoken coworkers handle. It's a minor product improvement I drafted, and my heart pounds as I plug in my laptop to the conference room screen. But then I recall everything I've done recently—the pub chat, the date, Sierra, the concert—and I find the nerve to speak up clearly.
My manager raises an eyebrow in pleasant surprise at my initiative. The presentation goes off without a hitch. People ask questions, I answer with confidence (okay, maybe my voice cracked once, but let's call it a stylistic choice). By the end, I've got a small nod of approval from the boss and an agreement to explore my idea further.
When I return to my desk, the System gives me a quiet congratulatory note: Confidence +0.5. I can practically feel that half-point in the straightness of my posture. A coworker, who rarely talks to me beyond small greetings, even compliments the idea on our way out that day. It feels... new. Good.
All these parallel quests—concert-going, stepping up at work—paint a picture: I'm leveling up in more than just dating. Each thing feeds into the other. The more I push my boundaries in life, the more I have to bring back to my budding relationship with Sierra, and vice versa. It's like positive feedback loops all around.
I share these little victories with Sierra in our nightly chats. When I excitedly recount (with probably too many exclamation points) how the meeting went, she replies:
Sierra: "That's fantastic! I can totally hear the confidence through your text 😊. So proud of you!"
I practically glow at her praise. And she's right—my texts have become more... lively, I guess. I send her a selfie from the concert of me and Marcus, both mid-cheer (it's blurry and terrible, but she loves it). She sends back a laughing emoji and remarks, "You look so happy!"
I am happy. Happier than I've been in a long time.
One evening, as I'm unwinding at home, the System pops up a special alert with a little fanfare of trumpets. I raise my eyebrows, setting down my book. On the HUD, a skill icon appears—a stylized silhouette of a person standing confidently on a mountain:
New Skill Unlocked: Adaptive Confidence – You thrive in new situations. Temporary anxiety debuff when facing unfamiliar challenges.
I read the description twice. Adaptive Confidence. Huh. It's a fancy way of saying I'm getting comfortable being uncomfortable—and coming out stronger for it.
I whisper the skill name to myself and grin. Corny as it is, I like it. It feels earned.
Before bed, I shoot one more text to Sierra: a picture of the trail map for the hike I mentioned to her, with a question mark. She responds almost instantly: "This weekend? I'm down! Let's do it 😃"
As I plug in my phone to charge, I marvel at how much has changed. Not so long ago, my evenings were a bland routine of solo gaming or binge-watching shows, barely speaking to anyone. Now my calendar is dotted with plans—concerts, hikes, casual meet-ups with Sierra, even a scheduled brainstorming session at work because apparently I've become "an idea guy."
None of these quests felt forced; each came about naturally, a mix of System nudges and my own growing hunger to live life fully. And the best part? Sierra is right there, encouraging this growth, finding it attractive even. The thought makes me flush with a mix of pride and bashfulness.
I climb into bed, feeling that pleasant soreness in my legs from the extra activity and a buzz in my mind from the day's accomplishments. The System's interface rests quietly in the corner of my vision, no urgent quests at the moment—just a soft glow around that new skill icon, a reminder of how far I've come.
Tomorrow, I'll see Sierra for that hike. Another adventure awaits. And this time, I won't be the guy terrified of the unknown; I'll be the guy striding forward, Adaptive Confidence skill ready, excited to level up side by side with someone who truly brings out the best in me.
Chapter 22: Cooking Up Connection
A week later, on a Saturday evening, I'm standing outside Sierra's apartment door with a paper bag full of groceries and a swarm of butterflies doing aerial stunts in my stomach. Sierra invited me over for a casual cooking night—her exact words—but to me it feels like a major milestone. It's the first time I'll be seeing her in the intimate setting of her home, just the two of us, no crowds or friends or public buffers. Just us... and presumably a lot of garlic.
I double-check the apartment number she texted me, then take a steadying breath and knock. Almost immediately, I hear the scuffle of feet and the click of the lock. The door swings open and there she is, in comfy jeans and a soft maroon sweater, a streak of what looks like flour already on her forearm. She beams at me, and just like that, half my nerves dissolve.
"Hey, you," she greets warmly.
"Hey," I reply, smiling back. "Chef Sierra, I presume?"
She laughs, stepping aside to let me in. "Using that term very loosely, mind you. Come on in."
I slip off my shoes by the door and follow her into the apartment. It's a cozy space, warmly lit by a couple of lamps and the light over the stove. The aroma of sautéing garlic and onions envelops me immediately. Soft jazz plays from a speaker somewhere, mingling with the gentle sizzle coming from the pan on the stove. Her kitchen is modest but homey—a stack of cookbooks on the counter, a little herb garden of potted basil and rosemary on the windowsill. It's undeniably her space, and being invited into it feels special.
I set my grocery bag on the kitchen island. "I brought the stuff for the salad," I say, unpacking leafy greens, cherry tomatoes, and a wedge of parmesan. We had loosely planned the menu over text: she'll handle a pasta dish if I handle a salad. Teamwork, just like class.
"Perfect," she says, peering into the bag. "You came prepared. Impressive."
"I aim to please," I quip, and she gives me that charming grin that makes my chest flutter.
She pours us each a glass of wine ("Cooking fuel," she calls it). I take a sip of the red and it warms me from the inside. Or maybe that's just the effect of standing here next to her, so close I can feel the warmth radiating from the stove—and from her body when our arms occasionally brush as we move around the tiny kitchen.
We fall into an easy rhythm. I wash and chop vegetables for the salad while Sierra tends to her pasta primavera on the stove, tossing in garlic, cherry tomatoes, and spinach into the pan. The sound of sizzling intensifies, and a heavenly smell wafts up.
"How's it looking?" I ask, peeking into her skillet.
The pan is a riot of colors—reds from tomatoes, vibrant green spinach wilted just right, all in a light gloss of olive oil and garlic. Sierra stirs with a wooden spoon, her brow slightly scrunched in that cute way when she's concentrating. "I think we're about five minutes from showtime," she says. "Pasta's almost done boiling. Sauce is... hopefully edible."
I sneak a quick taste from the spoon when she's not looking and make an exaggeratedly blissful face. "Definitely edible. Chef's kiss," I declare.
She catches me and laughs. "Hey! No sneaking tastes!"
"Quality control, I swear," I defend myself playfully. "And my verdict: ten out of ten."
She shakes her head with a smile and, in a bold move, dips her finger into the sauce to get a taste herself. A bit of sauce ends up on the corner of her mouth without her noticing.
I point, grinning. "You, uh... you've got a little something."
"What? Here?" She wipes the wrong side, smearing it slightly.
Without thinking, I reach forward with the pad of my thumb and gently swipe the bit of sauce from the corner of her lips. "Got it," I say softly, my thumb lingering an extra second before I pull it away.
Sierra's eyes lock onto mine. For a moment, neither of us moves. There's a charged silence, the jazz music fading into the background along with the sizzle on the stove. Her cheeks flush a gentle pink, and I realize mine probably are too.
"Thanks," she says, voice a touch quieter than before.
I clear my throat, the intimacy of the moment making my pulse race. "Anytime."
We both turn back to our tasks, maybe a tad flustered but smiling. The System, which has been respectfully quiet, chooses that moment to blip a small notice at the edge of my vision: Affection +5. I chuckle internally—no kidding.
As we continue, conversation starts flowing freely. Sierra tops off our wine glasses and we segue into talking about childhood memories. It starts when I mention how my grandma used to make a similar pasta dish and I could never replicate it.
"Sounds like grandma had the magic touch," Sierra says, adding a pinch of salt to the skillet. "My mom is the cook in our family. She taught me everything I know. Growing up, weekends were basically unofficial cooking classes in our kitchen."
"That explains why you can dice an onion like a pro," I tease.
She laughs. "If only my teenage self could hear you say that—she'd be very proud. Back then I was mostly motivated by wanting to eat cookies and not wait for my mom to make them."
I grin. "I can respect that. Teenage me learned to cook exactly one thing—scrambled eggs—just to avoid starving during marathon gaming sessions."
"Oh ho, a chef and a gamer," she teases right back. "Your talents are endless, John."
We share stories as we cook. She tells me about the small town she grew up in, where everyone knew everyone and Friday night football games were the highlight of social life (she rolled her eyes at it then, but admits she misses the community feeling now). I find myself leaning against the counter, utterly engrossed as she describes sneaking out with her best friend at 16 to drive to a neighboring city for a rock concert, how alive they felt singing in the car on the way back under the stars.
There's a moment where I think about glossing over some of my more embarrassing past—like how utterly lonely I was a few months back, or the countless online dates that went nowhere. Part of me wants to present the best version of myself, especially now. But something about Sierra's open, genuine way of sharing makes me want to be honest too. The System gives a gentle nudge in my peripheral vision: "Be Honest – Authenticity Skill Check."
I take a breath and tell her about how, not so long ago, I felt stuck in a rut—nervous to talk to strangers, pretty hopeless about dating. I keep it light, joking about some "guardian angel self-help program" that encouraged me to change (I glance slyly at the invisible System as I say this). I even recount a humorous disaster: the time I tried a pick-up line so bad on a dating app that the girl responded with a grammar correction (we both crack up at that).
To my relief, Sierra isn't put off at all. In fact, she seems moved that I'm sharing. "I had no idea," she says softly. "If it's worth anything, I wouldn't have guessed you ever had trouble talking to people." She nudges my shoulder. "Look at you now—you're easy to be around."
That simple statement warms me more than the wine. "Honestly, meeting you has been part of that change," I admit, eyes on the salad I'm tossing to avoid the full intensity of eye contact for a second. "You've made it... easy."
There's a quiet in the kitchen then, but not an awkward one. I lift my gaze to find her looking at me with a tenderness that makes my heart do a somersault.
The timer on her stove goes off, jolting us slightly. "Oh! Pasta's ready," she announces. We both spring into action to drain the noodles and mix them with her sauce. In the flurry, we find ourselves reaching for the pepper grinder at the same time. My hand covers hers on the grinder, and we pause, inches apart.
"All yours," I murmur, letting go, though neither of us immediately steps back. For a split second, I wonder if she can hear how loud my heart is beating.
Dinner finally comes together. We carry our plates to her small dining table, still chatting, though there's a new, softer undertone to everything now. The meal looks and smells incredible. We clink wine glasses in a toast.
"To teamwork in the kitchen," Sierra says.
"And to excellent teachers—your mom and my grandma," I add.
We dig in. The flavors burst in my mouth—garlic, tomato, a hint of spice, perfectly cooked pasta. "Sierra, this is amazing," I say after the first bite, nearly groaning with pleasure.
She smiles widely. "Couldn't have done it without my trusty sous-chef."
I pretend to look around. "Where? I only see me."
She rolls her eyes, laughing. "Yes, you, dummy."
We settle into an easy conversation as we eat. There's something so intimate about sharing a home-cooked meal at her table. The jazz has shifted to a slow, soulful tune that matches the relaxed mood. We trade bites of food, insisting the other tries a forkful—at one point, I reach out to brush a bit of parmesan off her chin with my thumb, a mirror of earlier, and she gives me a playful wink in return.
As we near the end of the meal, a comfortable silence stretches out. Sierra sits back in her chair, cradling her wine glass, and just looks at me for a moment. I feel heat rise to my cheeks under her gaze.
"What?" I ask, half-laughing under the scrutiny.
She shakes her head, her eyes bright. "I'm just... really happy you came tonight. This is exactly what I was hoping it would be."
I rest my forearms on the table, leaning in a bit. "Good food and great company? I couldn't agree more."
She hesitates, then says softly, "I meant it, what I said earlier—you're easy to be around, John. Refreshingly genuine, you know? No pretense, no games. It's... nice."
The sincerity in her voice is like a melody. I can feel my face flush, and I'm momentarily at a loss for words. That compliment hits deep, probably because I've spent so long feeling like I had to pretend or perform to get anywhere in dating. And here she is, basically saying she values me for being me.
My throat feels a little tight. All I manage is a quiet, "Thank you."
A familiar ping! goes off, and I see a System alert hovering jubilantly: Achievement Unlocked: Earned Trust – Relationship Level Up! It seems almost synchronized with the swell of emotion in my chest. I bite back a laugh. It's wonderfully absurd how this system overlays my life, but in this moment, I don't even care—the sentiment is spot on.
We clear the plates together, falling into a little dance around the kitchen sink—she washes, I dry. There's more water splashing than likely necessary (especially when I flick a few suds at her and she retaliates by dabbing a wet hand on my nose). We end up giggling like kids by the time everything is clean.
All night, the System has been respectfully low-key, but I notice now that the progress bar on my "Nurture Connection" quest is nearly full, hovering at something like 85-90%. It makes my heart pound because I realize just how much this all means—I'm so close to something wonderful, something real.
Too soon, it's time for me to go. As much as I'd love to stay lost in this cozy world with her, I also want to respect her space and not overstay (the System helpfully nudges: "Pro tip: leave while it's still sweet." For once, I wholeheartedly agree).
At her door, we both linger, not quite wanting to say goodbye. I clutch the paper bag that now contains leftover salad and a tupperware of pasta she insisted I take home.
"This was really great," I say softly, meeting her eyes. "Best meal I've had in... maybe ever."
She smiles, and there's that lovely pink in her cheeks again. "It was pretty great, wasn't it?"
We share one of those charged, wordless moments. Time seems to slow; the distance between us feels both tiny and immense. I see her hesitate just a fraction—then she steps forward and, in one gentle motion, rises on her toes and presses her lips to my cheek.
The kiss is soft and warm, lasting just a second or two, but it sends an electric warmth from my cheek straight to my heart. My eyes widen in surprise—pleasant surprise, the best kind imaginable.
She pulls back, looking momentarily shy, as if unsure of my reaction. But I'm sure mine is obvious: I'm frozen with the biggest grin plastered on my face.
"Goodnight, John," she says, almost a whisper.
I find my voice, albeit a little shaky. "G-goodnight, Sierra."
I force my feet to move, to turn and walk out into the hallway. She closes the door gently behind me, and I stand there for a moment in the dim corridor, letting the euphoria wash over me. I touch my cheek where her kiss still tingles, and I swear I could float down the stairs.
As I exit her building, the cool night air hits my face. I must look like a man who's won the lottery. In a way, maybe I have.
The System pops up a final note for the night: Quest "Nurture the Connection" – 95% Complete. Almost there.
I hug the leftovers bag to my chest like it's a bag of treasure and practically skip down the sidewalk. On the cusp of something real and wonderful? Absolutely. And for once, I don't even need the System to tell me that—every fiber of my being already knows.