We met the way people meet now: on a tiny glowing screen. But the real story started at Profeta, where Yakiv was already waiting and I walked up with Billie Bella -- who is both my dog and my emotional advisor. We sat down and tried to act like regular people having regular coffee, which never works. I ordered something lavender and Yakiv, possibly panicking, said, “I’ll have what she’s having.” It was the wrong choice. To him, it tasted like melted soap. But he drank it anyway -- bravely, and with a lot of eye contact. He told me he was at the Herbie Hancock Institute. I said, “I know it.” He looked surprised. “No, like I really know it. I scanned people’s brains there. Studied them. Studied people like you.” He looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or alarmed. It was perfect. We stayed past my parking meter. At the end, he asked if he could see me again. I said yes. Then he asked if I even liked jazz. I told him I loved Thelonious Monk. Second date: Yakiv brought a gallon of milk he had carried across Westwood in his backpack. He made crepes while talking very fast and sweating just a little. I didn’t interrupt. I just watched him spin around my kitchen like someone trying not to fall in love too quickly. The crepes were good, and the time was better. After dinner, Billie curled up between us as I sang along to Monk while Yakiv let out a breath I didn’t know he’d been holding. There was no single moment that told us this was it. Just lots of small ones -- more crepes, more music, more time with Billie -- adding up to something that felt just right.