Chapter 28: Unscripted Moments
Day 102, and Donna was in my apartment for the first time in weeks.
I'd been staying at hers mostly—it was nicer, better decorated, didn't feel like a prison cell with a bed.
But she'd wanted to pick something up before dinner, so we'd stopped by mine.
She walked in, looked around, and went still.
"You live like you work."
I followed her gaze—color-coded case files on my desk, law books alphabetized on the shelf, everything organized with military precision.
"Is that criticism?"
"It's observation." She touched one of the file folders. "Everything has a place. Everything serves a purpose. Nothing spontaneous or messy or just... there because you like it."
Guilty.
"What happens when something doesn't fit the system?"
I thought about that.
"I... don't know. I haven't encountered that yet."
Donna turned to face me, expression soft but knowing.
"You have. Me."
My stomach dropped slightly.
"What?"
"I don't fit in your systematic thinking, do I? You can't calculate me or predict me or organize me into neat categories."
She's right. And she knows it.
"No," I admitted. "You're the one variable I can't calculate. It's disorienting."
Donna stepped closer, close enough that I could see the exact shade of green in her eyes.
"Good. People aren't supposed to be calculated."
She kissed me—soft, unexpected, real.
And the System, for once, had nothing to say.
[SYSTEM STATUS: INACTIVE DURING PERSONAL INTERACTION]
[EMOTIONAL PROCESSING: MANUAL MODE]
[ASSESSMENT: RELATIONSHIP HEALTH REQUIRES AUTHENTIC UNPREDICTABILITY]
It's learning. Or I'm learning. Maybe both.
Day 103, I planned the perfect date.
Researched Donna's favorite cuisines through three months of casual conversations. Selected a French restaurant in the West Village that matched her preferences. Planned conversation topics—current events she'd mentioned interest in, questions about her theater background, anecdotes from work that highlighted shared experiences.
Even practiced delivery in my mirror that morning.
This will be good. This will be perfect.
Thirty minutes into dinner, Donna stopped me mid-sentence.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Performing. You rehearsed this, didn't you?"
Caught.
"I wanted it to be perfect."
Donna's expression shifted from amused to gentle.
"Perfect is boring, Scott. I want you, not your best presentation of you."
I sat back, felt the careful structure I'd built collapsing.
"I don't know how to do this without planning."
"Try."
I took a breath.
"Okay. Honest version: dating feels like litigation. I prepare for every contingency, anticipate counterarguments, try to control variables so nothing goes wrong. Because if I don't control it, it might fall apart, and I don't know how to handle that."
Donna laughed—genuine, warm, the kind of sound that made the restaurant feel less formal.
"Did you just compare our relationship to a trial?"
"...yes?"
"That's the most you thing ever."
She reached across the table, took my hand.
"I love it. I love that you care enough to prepare. But I also love the version of you who forgets to prepare because he's enjoying the moment. Try being that person more often."
I nodded, let go of the script I'd memorized, and we talked about nothing important for the next two hours.
It was better than anything I could have planned.
Day 105, Saturday, and we had no plan.
"Brooklyn," Donna announced over breakfast at her apartment. "We're exploring Brooklyn."
"What's in Brooklyn?"
"I don't know. That's the point."
We took the subway to Park Slope, walked through neighborhoods I'd never visited, stumbled into arguments about ridiculous things.
"Hotdogs are absolutely sandwiches," Donna insisted.
"That's philosophically incoherent. A sandwich requires two separate pieces of bread. A hotdog bun is a single piece of bread with a hinge."
"So a sub isn't a sandwich?"
"A sub is a sandwich because the bread is sliced all the way through. The hinge is incidental."
"You're making rules to fit your conclusion."
"I'm applying consistent principles!"
We argued for twenty minutes, both fully committed to our positions, both knowing it was absurd and not caring.
A used bookstore appeared on a corner—"Dusty Pages," sign hand-painted and fading.
"Let's go in," Donna said.
The shop smelled like old paper and possibilities. I found a first edition of The Path of the Law by Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. in the philosophy section, genuine excitement replacing my usual calculated interest.
"This is from 1897. Original binding. Holmes's famous lecture about law being predictions of what courts will do, not moral principles—"
I looked up to find Donna watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"What?"
"You're nerding out. Genuinely. Not performing or strategizing. Just... excited about an old book."
"Is that bad?"
"It's perfect."
We bought the book. Walked to a pier overlooking Manhattan. Sat on a bench watching the sunset paint the skyline in orange and gold.
Neither of us spoke for almost an hour.
The System's been completely offline. Three hours. Maybe more.
I didn't notice because I didn't need it.
"This," Donna said quietly. "This is my favorite version of you."
"The version with no plan?"
"The version who forgets to plan because he's enjoying the moment."
I thought about that—about how scary and liberating it was to just exist without calculating outcomes.
Either character growth or dangerous dependence on one person. Probably both.
We walked back to her apartment as the city lights came on, and the silence between us was comfortable.
At her door, she asked: "Are you happy?"
I considered the question honestly.
"I'm content. Which is more than I expected when I started at the firm."
"Just content?"
"Content is underrated. It means things are working—my career is building, I have someone who sees past my calculation, Louis actually respects me—"
Donna kissed me, cutting off the list.
When she pulled back, she was smiling.
"Say that again."
"Which part?"
"The part where I see past your calculation."
"You do. It's terrifying."
"Good terrifying or bad terrifying?"
I thought about it.
"Haven't decided yet."
She laughed, and we went inside.
The System remained quiet, and for once, I let it stay that way.
Maybe I'm learning. Maybe relationships require the one thing my System can't provide—genuine unpredictability.
Maybe that's okay.
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