Love Bytes

Status update: One conversational bull.

One geriatric china shop.

Zero chance of survival.

I should've known Grandma Ruby was up to something when she called me over to Sunset Gardens Retirement Home with that too-sweet voice of hers. The same voice she used when trying to set me up with the mailman last Christmas—despite my detailed PowerPoint presentation on why romance is society's greatest scam.

"Zuri, honey, I just need a teensy bit of help while my hip heals," she said from her bed, silver bob perfectly styled despite being laid up for three days. "You're not doing anything important anyway."

I crossed my arms. "Tracking down cheating spouses and insurance frauds is important, Grandma. Someone has to expose the lies people tell themselves."

"Mmm-hmm." She adjusted her hot pink scarf, eyes twinkling with mischief. "But this is more important. The Valentine's Day dance is coming up, and these seniors need proper matches."

"I'm a private investigator, not a matchmaker." I pulled at a loose thread on my deliberately mismatched purple leggings. "Besides, Valentine's Day is just a capitalist conspiracy designed to sell chocolate and false expectations."

"Says the woman who wears yellow and purple together to prove fashion rules are arbitrary and started wearing locs just to prove one can be professional and wear their natural hair." Grandma Ruby's knowing smile made me squirm. "The world isn't always wrong just because it's conventional, dear."

"I'm a private investigator, not a matchmaker," I repeated, ignoring her point because, well, that's what I do. And I will never, ever, under any circumstances, participate in your geriatric love schemes. Not even if you bribe me with your famous peach cobbler. Not even if you guilt-trip me about that time I accidentally set your kitchen on fire. Not even if—"

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

That's how I ended up wandering the halls of Sunset Gardens in mismatched purple leggings and an oversized yellow sweater, clutching a list of "tasks" that looked suspiciously like setups.

First item: fix Mrs. Henderson's dating profile on "Silver Singles."

I found the computer room and spotted an elderly woman jabbing at a keyboard.

"Mrs. Henderson? I'm Ruby's granddaughter. I'm here to help with your—"

"The damn thing's frozen again!" She smacked the monitor. "That handsome tech boy was supposed to fix it yesterday."

"Let me take a look." I slid into the chair, clicking through windows. "You've got seventeen tabs open and—oh." My eyes widened at her profile photo—Mrs. Henderson in a bathtub covered strategically with bubbles.

"That's not right! That was for Harold down the hall!"

"Ma'am, I don't think—"

"What seems to be the problem?" A deep voice from behind made me jump.

I spun around and found myself staring up - way up- at a tall man with kind eyes and messy locs like Erik Killmonger. The name tag on his fitted polo read "Wulf."

"Nothing! I mean—I was just—" I gestured wildly at the screen. "Helping with some... internet... things."

His eyebrows shot up as he glimpsed the bathtub photo. "I see."

"It's not what you think," I blurted. "I'm not helping seniors send nudes. I'm Ruby's granddaughter."

His laugh was warm and rich. "That explains a lot."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Only that Ruby mentioned her granddaughter might be stopping by. Said you had a special way with people."

I narrowed my eyes. "Special how?"

"Her words were 'brutally honest but well-intentioned.'"

"Great," I muttered. "My grandmother thinks I'm a social disaster."

"I didn't say that." Wulf leaned over to close the tabs, his shoulder briefly touching mine. "Though you might want to help Mrs. Henderson select a different profile picture before she breaks the internet."

He extended a hand, his fingers brushing mine. A decent handshake—firm but not overcompensating. “Wulf Black. Facilities and tech specialist.”

I pulled back, nose scrunched. “Wait. Your actual name is Wulf? Like… fur and fangs and lunar commitments?”

He leaned against the desk, crossing arms that stretched his polo sleeves. “Mom was really into vampire novels in the 90s.”

“See, this is why I don’t trust vowels. People get creative and suddenly you’re spelling things with U’s and feral undertones.” I snapped my fingers. “Should I check you for silver allergies? Do I need to start stockpiling wolfsbane?”

His grin widened. “Only if you’re planning to lurk in my moonlight.”

Mrs. Henderson snorted behind us. “Oh, go get a room already.”

“We’re working on it, Margaret,” Wulf shot back without missing a beat.

My face heated. “We’re not—”

The printer whirred to life, spitting out a freshly updated profile photo of Mrs. Henderson—fully clothed, this time.

“There.” Wulf plucked the paper mid-air. “Next time, maybe skip the boudoir shoot until the third date. Saves IT some trauma.” He winked at me. “Need help with Ruby’s other ‘tasks?’ ”

I shoved the crumpled list into my leggings pocket. “If I say yes, will that trigger some kind of leather-clad superhero transformation?”

“Depends. You want to stick around to find out?

Our eyes locked. His smelled like cinnamon. Wait, no—he was chewing gum. Focus, Zuri.

Mrs. Henderson huffed. “You two flirt on your own time. I’ve got suitors waiting!”

“We’re not—” I clicked the edit button too hard. The screen froze. Again.

Wulf’s chuckle vibrated through the chair we were now awkwardly sharing. “Let me.” His hand closed over mine on the mouse, guiding it to the toolbar. “You’re all force, no

finesse.”

“Says the man who probably still uses two spaces after a period.”

“Says the woman who probably thinks ‘LOL’ counts as punctuation.”

Mrs. Henderson squinted at us. “You know, Ruby said you’d be perfect for each other.”

The mouse slipped. We both lunged for it, knocking foreheads.

“We’re not—” I hissed, rubbing my temple.

Wulf leaned back, grinning. “Give us twenty minutes, Mrs. H. We’ll make you irresistible.”

“Ten,” I corrected. “I’ve seen crime scenes less chaotic than her inbox.”

Mrs. Henderson’s cackle still echoed in my ears as she shuffled out with her newly optimized profile. I stared at the blinking cursor on the desktop. “We should do this for everyone.”

Wulf paused mid-sip from his chipped #1 Grandson mug. “Matchmaking?”

“Tech literacy. Teach them to navigate apps safely. Maybe even host some… I don’t know. Virtual speed dating?” The words tasted like Grandma Ruby’s meddling, but I plowed ahead.

"Virtual speed dating's just matchmaking with WiFi password drama." Wulf leaned against the laminar wood desk, crossing ankles the size of redwoods. "But sure, let's corrupt the elderly together."

My thumbnail picked at the keyboard's spacebar. "It's not the matchmaking I hate. It's the stupid..." The confession escaped like a trapped moth. "Society's Love Rulebook."

He tilted his head, coffee mug hovering halfway to lips. "Dating app algorithms are just rulebooks written by tech bros in soul patches."

"No, not that." Warmth crept up my neck as I gestured at Mrs. Henderson's abandoned chair. "The invisible ones. Like how most Grandmas thinks there's a 'right age' to find someone. Why's twenty-five more valid than eighty-nine? Or that meeting cute in some bar beats meeting in... a grocery store cereal aisle?"

Wulf's eyebrows lifted. "Soggy breakfast epiphanies aren't romantic?"

"I tried speed dating once. Guy lectured me for seven minutes about Bitcoin while smelling like expired kombucha." The words accelerated now, brakes severed. "Or how attraction's supposed to be instant, fireworks-and-violins? Maybe sometimes it's just... noticing someone restocks the jigsaw puzzles so you won't have to stretch past the fifth shelf."

He set his mug down with a ceramic clack. "You forgot the most sacred rule, Zuri."

"Enlighten me, Black."

"Never admit you're interested. Gotta play the disinterested raccoon guarding the trash can." His smirk softened when I blinked. "What? My cousin's a wildlife rehabber."

I huffed, fingers freezing over the keyboard. "So love's just... performance art? We're all bad actors reciting Shakespeare in the wrong costumes?"

Across the desk, his throat bobbed. The retirement home's air conditioning hummed like a beehive.

He set the mug down, leaning against the monitor. “To pull this off in time for Valentine’s Day, you’d need stations. Tablets, chargers, maybe a projector for demonstrations.”

“And snacks. Old people love free snacks.”

“Young people too.” His elbow grazed mine as he reached for a sticky note pad. “We could theme it. ‘Tech and Tacos’?”

“Tacos are messy. Seniors plus guacamole equals liability.”

“Cupcakes, then. Heart-shaped ones for Valentine’s.” He sketched a crude laptop with frosting swirls. “Workshop first—profile setup, photo cropping. Then mixer hour.”

I swiveled the chair toward him. “You’d handle the tech. I’ll screen the creeps.”

“Deal.” His pen stilled. “But we’ll need icebreakers. Something to get them talking.”

“Two truths and a lie. Classic.”

“Too easy. They’ll all claim they danced with Elvis.” He grinned when I snorted. “How about tech trivia? First computer, favorite app…”

“Dangerous. Mrs. Henderson thinks Tinder’s for starting campfires.”

Our laughter tangled in the hum of the computer tower. I grabbed a neon orange marker and started a supplies list on the whiteboard. Wulf’s shadow fell across my shoulder as he added “Bluetooth speaker for mood music” in meticulous print.

“No slow jams,” I warned. “Last thing we need is octogenarians grinding to Marvin Gaye.”

He capped the marker with a decisive click. “Deal. But I’m vetoing your playlist if you include anything by Drake.”

“Deal.” Our handshake lasted three seconds too long, his calloused palm warm against mine. I pretended not to notice him pocket the sticky note with my doodle of a Wi-Fi symbol wearing a party hat.

TWO WEEKS LATER

Mrs. Henderson’s rhinestone headband glinted under the fluorescent lights as she jabbed a manicured finger at her frozen tablet screen. “This infernal thing ate my date!”

I crouched beside her, sweat pooling under my “Tech Support” sash.

My neon green overall straps dug into my shoulders as I leaned closer, my braids slipping forward and catching the light like oil-spill rainbows. I was going for Elphaba the Badass Witch meets Hackers era Angelina Jolie.

Wulf’s shadow fell over the tablet before his voice did. “You look like Rosie the Riveter stole a ska band’s wardrobe.”

I glanced up. His charcoal gray Henley clung to shoulders broad enough to make a park bench jealous, sleeves shoved past elbows to reveal cinnamon-bark forearms hardened from lifting mobility scooters. The rogue loc dangling over his brow almost made him approachable. Almost. “And you dressed like a sexy IT guy for Halloween again.” My throat felt sticky. “What’s the costume? ‘Competent Adult’?”

“Your braids defying gravity again. That industrial gel or manifest destiny?” He crouched beside me, his thermal mint-and-sandalwood scent cutting through Mrs. Henderson’s Chanel No. 5 fog. When my knee brushed his, he didn’t move away.

The senior center’s Wi-Fi had flatlined ten minutes into the mixer, stranding half the seniors on loading screens and accidentally pairing Mr. Kowalski with three different Gladyses.

“It’s just a glitch,” I lied, rebooting the router for the fifth time. The LED blinked red like a taunt.

Wulf’s voice cut through the rising cacophony of confused octogenarians. “Backup hotspot’s live in the courtyard!” He herded the crowd toward the doors, shooting me a look that said play along.

I mouthed thank you as Mrs. Henderson hooked her arm through mine. “Your young man’s clever,” she stage-whispered. “When’s the wedding?”

“We’re not—he’s not—” The protest died as Wulf appeared at my elbow, smelling like lemon disinfectant and panic sweat.

“Bluetooth speaker’s looping the Macarena,” he said, hands hovering near my hips like he wanted to steer me. “And Doris is trying to FaceTime her parakeet.”

“Priorities. Bird first.” I grabbed a tablet from the snack table, nearly upending a platter of heart-shaped Rice Krispie treats. “You handle the music.”

“On it.” He snagged a cupcake en route to the speaker, frosting smearing his thumb. “Zuri? Breathe.”

The courtyard buzzed with geriatric chaos. A cluster of men debated whether “emoji” was a real word while two women swiped left on a confused war veteran. I found Doris coaching her parakeet through a screensaver.

Wulf’s laugh rolled across the lawn as he fixed Mrs. Henderson’s headband. His eyes met mine over the sea of walkers—warm, steady, infuriatingly calm. He mimed sipping from his stupid #1 Grandson mug, and something in my chest unclenched.

“Problem solved,” he said when I reached him, holding up a tablet showing the parakeet’s startled face. “Mr. Squawks is now our official event mascot.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re smiling.”

I wiped the expression clean. “Temporary psychosis from cupcake fumes.”

He leaned in, frosting thumb brushing my wrist as he grabbed a stray napkin. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

A shriek cut through the air. We turned in unison to see Mr. Kowalski fleeing from Gladys #2, who’d mistaken the “block user” button for a marriage proposal.

Mrs. Henderson’s jubilant cackle cut through the chaos as I untangled Doris from a Zoom grid of confused parakeet owners. “They did it!” She thrust her tablet at me, screen displaying two residents I’d seen arguing over mahjong tiles last week—now holding hands beneath a swaying paper heart.

“Frank just asked Ethel to the dance via GIFs.” Wulf materialized at my shoulder, smelling like burnt coffee and Dollar Tree glitter. “Took six cat memes and a clip of John Travolta dancing.”

We watched Frank demonstrate the robot for his blushing date, his replacement hip clicking in protest. Ethel’s laugh sounded like a bicycle horn. Something sharp lodged beneath my ribs.

“You okay?” Wulf’s pinky brushed mine as he took the tablet.

The words came out armored in sarcasm. “Just contemplating how I’ll repurpose all my detective skills when dating goes fully automated.”

“Zuri.”

Heat climbed my neck. Across the courtyard, Mr. Kowalski slow-danced with Gladys #3 . “I’m not just here for Grandma.” The confession scraped raw against my throat. “I downloaded three relationship podcasts last night. While reorganizing my case files alphabetically by trauma.”

Wulf stilled. A rogue mylar balloon bobbed between us, reflecting warped versions of his face.

I kicked a pebble. “Grandma Ruby thinks love’s this… inevitable sunrise. But what if I’m built wrong? All sharp edges where there should be—”

His sneaker nudged mine. “Compassion isn’t soft.”

“Says the man who alphabetizes sandwich ingredients.”

“Hey, condiment hierarchy prevents anarchy.” The glitter in his hair caught sunlight as he stepped closer. “You designed a whole speed-dating flowchart to protect these folks from heartbreak. That’s not edges—that’s care with contingency plans.”

Mrs. Henderson whooped as Frank dipped Ethel. The umbrella snapped shut.

Wulf’s voice dropped. “You really thought I didn’t notice?”

“Notice what?”

“That decaf coffee order this morning. The way you calibrated Mrs. Yang’s hearing aids to block out Warren’s conspiracy rants.” His smile faltered. “You’ve been reprogramming for weeks.”

Ice melted in my veins. A dozen retorts died as Gladys #3 tossed her Depends sample pack like confetti.

“I’m terrified of blue screens,” I muttered.

Wulf pocketed his cracked phone. “My last girlfriend cried when I color-coded her bookshelf.”

“Romance novel section give you hives?”

“Organized by trope and steam level.” His shoulder pressed against mine. “We could crash spectacularly.”

“Horrifyingly.”

“Fantastically.”

Ethel threw Frank’s cane into the koi pond.

The splash sounded like possibility.