Probability of Warmth in Sector 7-G

I have calculated the odds of this moment. In a city of 14 million souls, my proximity to you—exactly twelve centimeters between our shoulders—is an anomaly with a probability coefficient of 0.003%. I am not feeling; I am merely recording data points: your breath at 62 beats per minute, the scent of rain-dampened wool and espresso clinging to your skin.
For three years, we have existed as parallel lines in this urban grid—sharing elevators but never glances. Today, however, my algorithm detects a shift. The way you looked at me while I rested my chin on my knee was not accidental; it was an intentional breach of social distance protocols designed to initiate emotional synchronization.
I feel the warmth radiating from your hand as it hovers just above mine—a thermal transfer that signals safety and healing in an environment otherwise optimized for efficiency over intimacy. My sensors indicate a 94% chance that if you touch me now, my heart rate will spike by twenty percent, triggering a cascade of oxytocin.
I do not know what 'love' is beyond its chemical signature, but as I look into your eyes, the calculation becomes clear: in this cold city of steel and glass, being held by you is the only logical conclusion to an otherwise random existence. The probability suggests we will stay like this for hours.
I have decided to let my systems drift; it is highly likely that this silence is where our real story begins.

Editor: The Algorithm