"Oh, I absolutely would."
"It's color-coded by aisle," Liv adds, grinning. "And sorted by perishability."
"That's um…efficient?" I say.
"That's unhinged," Priya says.
Sam drops her face into her hands. "I hate all of you."
Nadia leans back, mouth twitching up. "She also has a packing list template. Laminated."
"Laminated?" I repeat.
"Don't encourage them," Sam says, laughing now.
The conversation shifts. They tell me about the time Sam brought printed agendas to a girls' weekend. About her refusal to use anything other than a physical planner because digital calendars "lack accountability." About the time she organized her bookshelf by spine color and then by genre.
Sam defends herself—barely—and the whole time she's relaxed. Shoulders loose. Smiling without thinking. Laughing at herself instead of bracing for judgment.
This is Sam. With people who love her.
And they're letting me see it.
Liv refills Sam's glass and asks about the Harbor District shoot. Priya asks if I've worked with other architects. Nadia asks how I got into photography. Normal questions.
They’ve decided I’m okay.
An hour later Sam checks her phone. "It's almost nine."
"We should go," I say.
Priya waves a hand. "You're fine.”
"I have an early meeting," Sam says, standing. She hugs each of them—quick, efficient, real.
I shake hands again. Priya's grip remains firm. Liv tells me to take care of Sam. Nadia just nods.
Outside, the temperature has dropped. Sam pulls her coat tighter and we start walking.
"Let me walk you home," I say.
"You don't have to."
I stop. She stops.
"I invested eight hundred dollars in your laptop," I say. "I need to protect that investment."
Sam goes completely still. Her eyes widen. She stops walking entirely, turning to stare at me, the math visibly turning over in her head.
"Eight hundred?" Her voice catches. "Tom, that's your own money. You didn't even ask me. You just... paid it?"
"Like I said. An investment, which is why I am walking you home."
Her eyes soften, a mix of disbelief and something much deeper taking over her face. She hates owing people. But looking at me now, she doesn't look burdened. She looks amazed.
Then, a slow, disbelieving laugh escapes her, and she bumps her shoulder against mine. "Jerk."
"You're welcome."
