Caleb sat alone in the kitchen, or as he now called it, the Microbial Asset Logistics Center, conducting the post-mortem on the delivery. His official, external spreadsheet—V&C Q1: Customer Experience and ROI Metrics—was spotless. Delivery Time: 100%. Customer Retention (Vanderhoof): 100%. Gross Revenue: +$36,000. Everything pointed to Eliza's 'Qualitative Value Proposition' being a massive, statistically inexplicable success.
But the real data was hidden in a separate, password-protected file on his private server, labeled: E. Copley—Qualitative Risk Assessment.
He had started the file inadvertently after their grocery run (Chapter 5), and the delivery only provided more confounding data points. He now stared at the screen, compiling the variables.
Metric: Smile Radius (Public/Unprompted)
Observation: Dockside interaction with Julian Thorne.
Result: 85% utilization of available facial musculature. Highly disarming.
Conclusion: High-risk asset in professional settings. Causes significant confusion among competitors.
Metric: Improvised Pivot Efficiency (IPE)
Observation: Loss of Final Delivery Protocol Checklist (Water Soluble Event).
Input: Caleb's panic state (100% Failure).
Output: Eliza's deflection to Trent (100% Success).
Conclusion: Eliza's IPE rating is 98% higher than industry standard for unexpected variables. Requires further investigation.
Metric: Physical Contact Index (PCI)
Observation 1: Hand on arm at Grocer's Gallery. Duration: 12 seconds.
Observation 2: Flour removal from cheek. Duration: 3 seconds.
Caleb's Internal Biometrics during PCI events: Heart Rate: +25 BPM. Respiration: Irregular. Cognitive Function: Severely impaired (inability to recite tax code).
Conclusion: Exposure to PCI events poses a critical operational threat. Recommendation: Avoid all proximity to E. Copley outside of mandated business hours.
Caleb leaned back, running a hand through his hair. The file confirmed it: Eliza Copley was a chaotic, beautiful anomaly that actively undermined his ability to function as a rational human being. He was, quite literally, tracking his own developing feelings, trying to contain them within the rigid logic of a spreadsheet.
This isn't a risk assessment, a small, traitorous voice in his head whispered. It's a crush.
Just then, Eliza walked in. She was wearing a worn, soft cotton t-shirt that advertised a niche writer's conference she'd attended five years ago. She smelled faintly of old books and slightly less faintly of molasses and coffee.
"Morning, Vance," she said cheerfully, tossing her hair up into a messy bun that defied all known laws of physics but still somehow looked great. "I've been brainstorming the next tier of starters. Now that we have the 'Stoic Spelt,' I think we need a 'Tragic Rye.' It'll be $600. It only proofs when you read it poetry about unrequited love."
Caleb's eyes flickered involuntarily to the open E. Copley—Qualitative Risk Assessment file. He quickly minimized the window.
"Unrequited love has a 45% return rate in fiction, Eliza. That is too high a risk for a premium microbial asset," he said, his voice a little too sharp. "Focus on the data. Have you logged your time for the expense report?"
"I'll do the expense report when I feel like it. I'm an artist, not an auditor," she said, grabbing a mug. She perched on the edge of the granite counter, swinging her legs. "Speaking of risk, I saw you trying to calculate the trajectory of the flour that landed on your face yesterday. What was the verdict? Did it breach your personal space bubble?"
Caleb felt heat creep into his neck. He saw a new metric forming in his mind: Self-Consciousness Index (SCI). Currently spiking.
"The verdict, Eliza, is that unnecessary physical contact, such as the flour incident or the arm grab, creates noise in the system," he stated stiffly, trying to sound purely professional. He was really trying to warn himself. "It reduces efficiency and introduces emotional variables that compromise data integrity."
Eliza stopped swinging her legs. She looked at him, not with her usual teasing smirk, but with a surprising directness that made his carefully constructed walls shudder.
"Noise?" she repeated softly. "Or connection? Yesterday, when I wiped the flour off, you looked… startled. Like you hadn't been touched by a non-business entity in a very long time."
He opened his mouth to deny it, to recite his IPE score, to pivot the conversation back to the optimal feeding schedule for Larry. But no data came. His metrics had failed him. He couldn't look away from her eyes.
"It was unprofessional," Caleb finally managed, the words sounding hollow.
"Maybe," Eliza conceded, her voice still low and thoughtful. She hopped off the counter and took a step toward him. "But was it low value? Your panic level went from 'catastrophic' to 'optimal' in less than ten seconds, right after I grabbed your arm. We got the delivery done. Sometimes, Caleb, the most valuable data point isn't the one you can measure; it's the one that makes your heart rate go up."
She was standing close now, dangerously close to the maximum proximity threshold he'd recorded. The scent of coffee and old paper was overwhelming.
"That increase in heart rate," Caleb began, trying desperately to cling to logic, "is merely the body's fight-or-flight response to an unauthorized breach of personal space, Eliza. It is a biological error."
"Or maybe," she countered, her smile returning, this time soft and genuine, "it's a data point you need to stop deleting."
She turned, grabbing her laptop and a tub of fresh molasses, leaving him sitting there, staring at the closed lid of his computer, realizing that he had just failed the Avoid All Proximity recommendation. The risk was no longer manageable. The data of his desire was officially off the charts.
The tension is officially non-fungible! Caleb is struggling to reconcile his meticulous worldview with the chaos that is Eliza.