The Love Protocol

Chapter 1

Chapter One

ELENA

Elena Herrera hurried through the parking garage of the Seattle Neurological Institute, mentally cataloging her disaster of a morning.

Historically, she was a bit of a heavy sleeper.

To combat this, she used the loudest and most obnoxious alarm she could find, titled Nuclear Alarm Siren (LOUD).

It was an unpleasant way to start the day, but usually it worked.

Today, she didn’t wake until the third alarm, setting back her morning routine by fifteen minutes.

And then there was the egg situation. Her twelve-year-old son, Miguel, had a very specific order for his morning eggs: gently scrambled and cooked medium-rare. So he was quite displeased when Elena had the nerve to cook his eggs well-done and frantically scrambled.

"They're overcooked," Miguel had said, poking at the plate with his fork. Not angry, just disappointed, which was somehow worse.

"I'm sorry. I'm running late." She'd already been grabbing her bag, keys jingling in her hand.

"It's fine." He set down his fork with finality. “But we should probably sit down later and figure out some kind of system.”

“A system?”

“For the eggs.”

Elena felt a smile tugging at her lips despite the morning chaos. “I love you, mijo.”

“Love you too,” Miguel replied with exaggerated patience.

Elena checked her watch as she hurried down the hallway. Seventeen minutes late now. She slowed just before reaching the conference room, taking a deep breath before entering.

The conversation halted. Eight pairs of eyes turned toward her, but she only registered Paul's narrowed gaze from the head of the table, his presentation paused on the screen behind him.

Paul Thompson was the Director of Research Administration.

Nice enough guy but he had a short temper for disrespect of guidelines.

Paul took his eyes off Elena for a moment to passive-aggressively look at his watch, then looked back at Elena.

"Dr. Herrera, we’ve already started. Please take a seat.”

Elena felt heat rise in her cheeks but kept her expression neutral. "My apologies for the delay," she said, sliding into the only available chair, which was positioned, of course, directly in Paul's line of sight.

Rachel Sampson, her ally in the department, scooted her chair to make room, offering a subtle eye-roll that only Elena could see. As Paul resumed his monotonous presentation about quarterly metrics, Rachel slid her notepad toward Elena's elbow.

"You didn't miss much. Paul's computer needed updates. Five-minute meltdown," the note read in Rachel's neat handwriting.

Elena bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling and scribbled back, "Devastating. My whole day is ruined."

Rachel's shoulders shook slightly with suppressed laughter. She added to their covert conversation: "I’m sure the IT department will be hearing about this."

Elena tacked on, “Don’t forget about the Microsoft corporation. They might have a lawsuit coming their way.”

While Paul droned on about department updates, Rachel sketched a quick caricature of him with steam erupting from his ears, his tie askew, and his mouth open in an exaggerated shout.

She added a speech bubble containing nothing but punctuation marks.

Elena had to disguise her laugh as a cough, which earned her another disapproving glance from Paul.

"If Dr. Herrera and Dr. Sampson are finished with their correspondence," Paul said abruptly, "perhaps we could discuss the matter at hand."

The room went still. Only then did Elena notice how quiet it had become. The atmosphere shifted while she was distracted.

"As I was saying," Paul continued, his voice now carrying a more serious tone, "the board has reviewed our research timelines for the fiscal year. Due to budgetary constraints, they’re accelerating Dr. Herrera’s timeline. Six months for preliminary results.”

Elena's body went stiff. Her timeline to show results just got cut in half.

This research was the culmination of years of work, theoretical frameworks she'd developed throughout her entire career.

It was all aimed at developing a treatment for the symptoms of traumatic brain injuries.

Something that provided a lasting impact, not just temporary relief.

Her mind raced through the implications.

Six months to find a protocol that worked consistently.

They'd been testing variations for eight months already with mixed results at best. Some patients showed improvement, others plateaued, and they couldn't identify why.

They still needed to figure out the optimal session length, frequency, and intensity levels.

Each protocol adjustment meant starting over with a new patient group, minimum of four weeks to see if it was working, and another four to confirm the results weren't coincidence.

And that assumed they could even recruit enough participants, people with traumatic brain injuries who met their criteria and could commit to weeks of sessions.

The imaging center was booked solid, so getting consistent scanner time was already a nightmare. And all of this because—

“Budgetary constraints? That was their only reason?” Elena asked.

Paul hesitated, and she could see him struggling to find an answer that would make this make sense. He opened his mouth, closed it, then managed a slight nod that told her everything she needed to know.

Rachel's voice cut through the silence. "This is ridiculous, Paul. They’ve cut her timeline in half. Did you even try to fight their decision?”

A fight against the board would have been useless. In the time that she had been with the Institute, that had become abundantly clear. Whenever they made a decision, it was final. The sympathetic look on Paul’s face agreed with this sentiment.

“Look, I understand that this is devastating news, Elena.”

Elena could count on one hand the number of times that Paul had referred to her by her first name instead of Dr. Herrera.

"I can handle it," Elena said, her voice carrying more confidence than she felt.

Everybody in the room knew that the words were a lie.

The new timeline was impossible. When she inevitably failed, the board would reallocate her funding.

When the timeline expired, so would her career at the institute.

She stopped herself from considering what that would mean for her and Miguel.

She had six months to let that utterly depressing train of thought develop.

“I want you to know that we will do our best to accommodate you. If you need help, don’t hesitate to ask,” Paul said. Unfortunately, she knew he couldn’t provide the thing she needed: more time.

“I do have some good news. I was able to convince the board to bring in another research assistant for you.” He slid a folder toward her across the table.

Great, a new assistant that she couldn’t possibly train within six months.

As if Paul had read her thoughts, he added, “I know what you’re thinking.

It will be impossible to fully train them given the new timeline.

But I glanced at his file; he seems quite well-qualified for this project.

I expect you will get him up to speed quickly.

I included his resume with your meeting materials. ”

The meeting concluded shortly after, with Paul moving on to other departments as if he hadn't just dropped a professional grenade in her lap. Her mind was already racing, recalculating timelines, wondering who this new assistant was.

Elena clutched the folder to her chest as she left the conference room.

Six months. Half the time she'd planned for.

She waited until she was safely around the corner before letting the panic show.

Her life was about to get very difficult.

To distract from that spiral into negativity, she began flipping through the meeting materials until she found the resume Paul had mentioned.

Finn Cochrane, 26 years old.

She scanned the document as she walked, nearly colliding with a lab tech who was too absorbed in his phone to notice her.

Elena mumbled an apology without looking up from the pages.

PHD from Sanford. Research experience at Massachusetts General specializing in neuroimaging of trauma patients.

Programming experience with the exact software suite her lab used for analysis.

Not just the standard package either, the obscure modules she'd requested for her project.

This wasn't just a qualified candidate; this was someone whose career path seemed designed to prepare them for her project.

She continued walking, more slowly now, her suspicion growing with each line she read.

Every project Finn had worked on involved trauma and brain imaging.

Every publication focused on innovative therapy protocols.

All of his technical skills aligned perfectly with her needs.

It was as if someone had taken her research proposal and crafted the ideal assistant from it.

The odds of such a perfect match felt small. Impossibly small.

Elena reached the elevator, still staring at the resume as she pressed the button.

What would drive someone with these qualifications to apply for a research assistant position?

The salary would be less than he could command with this resume and publication record.

And why her lab? There were more prestigious researchers working on similar topics.

Researchers whose projects weren't being gutted by administrative timelines.

The elevator arrived with a soft ding. Elena stepped inside, still staring at Finn Cochrane's resume as the doors closed.

Twenty-six years old. Every qualification she could want, wrapped up in an entry-level application.

Maybe he had personal reasons for being in Seattle.

Family obligations, or a partner who'd relocated.

That would explain taking a position so far beneath his credentials.

Or maybe there was something the resume didn't reveal.

Some lab conflict, burned bridges at Mass General, a personality issue that made him unemployable despite the impressive resume.

The elevator climbed slowly. Third floor. Elena's finger traced his publication list again. The timing was too convenient, his qualifications too perfectly aligned. Whatever Finn’s motivations were, it didn’t matter. She needed all the help she could get.