"I know."
"And these chips..." He crinkles the bag. "I only eat these when I'm stressed about deadlines."
"I know. You always hit the basement vending machine before midterms. You have a ritual."
He looks at me, his dark eyes wide. "You noticed my snack ritual."
"I notice everything about you," I say. "I know you hum when you're reading something you like. I know you tap your pen when you're thinking. I know you hate the texture of velvet but love fleece."
Sam moves fast. One second he's by the whiteboard, the next he's in my space, his hands gripping the edges of the table, leaning in until our noses are almost touching.
"That is," he breathes, "the creepiest, most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."
"I'm efficient," I say, my eyes dropping to his mouth.
"You're a stalker."
"Guilty."
Then he kisses me—quick, hard—and snatches the chips.
"Okay, Stalker," he says, tearing the bag open and hopping onto the edge of the table. "You've proven your obsession. Now prove your point. Fix my thesis."
We work.
Sam is chaos. He throws ideas at the wall to see what sticks. He thinks in broad, colorful strokes, connecting dots that shouldn't be connected. But I'm the filter.
He pours the raw material; I refine it.
"Okay, look," I say, grabbing the blue marker. I circle the mess he made in the center of the board. "The core idea here is solid.How panic spreads through communities. But your evidence is all over the place."
Sam chews on a chip, watching me. "Ouch. Tell me how you really feel."
"You talked to, what, fifty people? And you think you've cracked the code on human behavior?" I meet his gaze. "You're brilliant, Sam. But you're winging it because you know you're charming enough to bullshit your way through the presentation."
Sam stops chewing. Something flickers across his face, there and gone. He swallows, wipes the chili dust from his lips with the back of his hand, and looks at me.
"Winging it," he repeats, testing the word.
"With the structure," I clarify, my pulse kicking up. "Not the concept."
Sam slides off the table. He stalks toward me. "So prove me wrong. Show me where it falls apart."
"I can," I say. "Right now."
"Do it." He stops right in front of my chair, boxing me in. "Tear it apart, Devan. Don't go easy on me."
I stare up at him. He's flushed, his breathing a little faster. And I realize this is what he wants.
Helikesthis.
"Fine." I turn to his laptop, pulling up his spreadsheet. "You talked to fifty people and you're acting like that's enough to predict how millions will behave. That's not data, Sam. That's a focus group."
"So what do you want me to do?" He leans over my shoulder. "Interview a thousand people? I don't have time for that."
"You don't need more interviews. You need historical backup."
"Like what? Old news articles?"
