"My genotype says I'm prone to anxiety," Leo said softly, switching off his tablet. "But it doesn't say that I’m currently terrified of losing the chance to find out if I actually like you, regardless of what the sequence says."
Leo sat in the sterile white room of the Gene-Match Clinic, staring at the glowing data on his tablet. His genotype was a mess of recessive traits—a predisposition for near-sightedness, a 40% higher risk of lactose intolerance, and a strange quirk that made cilantro taste like soap. genotype
Leo looked at her—really looked at her. He saw the way she chewed her lip when she was nervous, a habit no lab could map. He thought about his grandfather, who had the same 'weak' heart and 'bad' eyes as Leo, but who had spent eighty years painting masterpieces that moved people to tears. "My genotype says I'm prone to anxiety," Leo