Kelvin had always been the nerdy type. Not the “I wear glasses sometimes” kind of nerd—no, the full, unskippable intro cutscene version. The kind who thought talking about quarks at lunch was a social risk worth taking.

As a kid, he collected facts the way other kids collected Pokémon cards. Physics, astronomy, dinosaurs, molecular structures—if it had a diagram, Kelvin loved it.

Unfortunately, diagrams don’t hug you back.

So yes, he grew up to be a geek. And yes, his social life could be plotted on a graph titled “Approaches Zero.”

Naturally, when college rolled around, he chose Quantum Mechanics. Because if his love life was going to be uncertain, his academic path might as well match.

⸻

One winter evening, after a wild night out (and by wild, we mean spending four consecutive hours debating Batman’s moral alignment at the comic book store), Kelvin trudged back to his dorm.

He climbed up to his floor, keys already in hand—when he noticed something strange.

Boxes.

Stacked right across the hallway from his room.

Kelvin paused.

New dormmate?

Statistically speaking, it could go one of three ways: 1. Another nerd (high probability, moderate comfort) 2. A normal person (low probability, high anxiety) 3. A gym-obsessed, protein-shake-chugging menace (catastrophic outcome)

Driven by a mixture of curiosity and poor decision-making, Kelvin peeked into the open doorway.

And then—

He froze.

Because inside the room… was a girl.

A very… very… very pretty girl.

Cami top. Shoulders visible. Hair slightly messy like she hadn’t even tried and still won at life. Sweatpants. Comfortable. Effortlessly human.

Kelvin’s brain immediately blue-screened.

“Oh,” his mind whispered, helpfully. “Oh no.” “Oh my string theory.”

He stood there, completely still, like a deer caught in headlights—if the headlights were socially competent and smelled like vanilla.

He had seen girls before, obviously. This wasn’t a scientific first contact situation.

But talked to one?

That required a different skill tree. One he had… tragically neglected.

The girl glanced up, catching him mid-existential crisis.

She smiled.

And waved.

Kelvin’s soul left his body and filed a formal resignation.

“H-Hello!” he blurted, stepping forward like his legs had made the decision without consulting him. “I’m Kelvin! Neighbor—student—dorm—across—hall—uh—Kelvin.”

Pause.

Abort mission?

No.

He doubled down.

“Like—like the temperature scale! Where molecules stop moving at—uh—absolute zero! Not that I’m saying you make me stop moving—although biologically I kind of have—no, wait, that sounds like I’m dying—I’m not dying—this is just—socially catastrophic—”

He stopped.

Blinking.

Breathing.

Regretting every life choice since birth.

“…Hi.”

Somewhere, deep in his brain, a tiny voice whispered:

Congratulations, Kelvin. You’ve just scientifically proven you cannot flirt.