One might say working for Big Gas, Big Oil was a traitor's move for a PhD candidate—whatever those climate-change evangelists in Patagonia fleeces liked to preach. Jack Kirkman didn't give a fuck.

He'd made bank at Schlumberger. Aramco had practically paid for his master's. And if the planet was doomed, it wasn't gonna be because of him personally.

Now, he was at MIT, chain-vaping his mint pod outside the Infinite Corridor like a man who'd seen the devil and realized the devil was probably an adjunct professor.

His "innovative framework for sustainable petrochemical equilibrium modeling" was seventy percent buzzwords he'd strung together at 3 a.m. He knew it. The department probably knew it. But his CV was golden, and when you've had a quarter-life crisis that involved a failed engagement, disappointed parents, and the phrase "your cousin just had twins" on repeat—you either run a marathon, flee to Japan, or apply for a PhD out of sheer spite.

Jack had done all three.

What's next? Do a fucking Hyrox in Bali? Fuck off.

So here he was. PhD candidate. Imposter syndrome simmering quietly beneath the surface while he pretended he knew what the hell he was doing. He wasn't like the other nerds who thought in chemical formulas or got hard over differential equations. He was too normal for that—too frat boy, too real-world. ASU had taught him beer pong trajectories and how to talk his way out of anything. Schlumberger had taught him that capitalism was the only science that mattered.

MIT was teaching him that he might've made a terrible mistake.

He was mid-drag on his vape when he saw her.

A woman—pretty, sharp-eyed, way too put-together for a Wednesday afternoon—was speed-walking down the corridor like she was being chased. She clutched a folder to her chest, eyes darting, and Jack's brain did that thing where it registered trouble and hot in the same half-second.

Then she looked right at him.

"Oh thank god," she breathed, closing the distance in three strides.

Before he could even process it, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him to her side.

"Just—go along with it, okay?" she whispered, and then her entire face shifted into something bright and fake and terrifying.

A tall, brooding guy in a stiff suit was approaching, glaring daggers. The kind of guy who definitely said "networking opportunity" unironically.

"This is my boyfriend," she announced, smiling like she hadn't just committed identity fraud.

Jack blinked.

Boyfriend?

The suited man stopped, jaw tight. "Boyfriend."

"Mm-hm," Jack said smoothly, slipping an arm around her waist like he'd done it a thousand times. "PhD candidate. Chemical engineering." He flashed a grin that was eighty percent charm, twenty percent I dare you to call me a liar. "We met at a symposium on geopolitical energy models. Couldn't stop talking about OPEC pricing structures."

Her eyes snapped to him, wide with something between panic and disbelief.

He just winked.

The suited man's scowl deepened. He muttered something about "unprofessional conduct" and stalked off like a man who'd just lost an argument he hadn't even started.

The moment he was gone, she exhaled like she'd been holding her breath underwater.

"Oh my god," she whispered, covering her face. Then she looked up at him, half-laughing. "Geopolitical energy models? OPEC pricing?"

Jack shrugged, taking another drag. "Had to sell it."

She stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, something flickering in her expression. "That was... really fast."

"Yeah, well." He grinned. "I've talked my way out of worse."

"I don't doubt it." She shook her head, still trying to catch her breath. "Thank you. Seriously. That was—he's my ex-supervisor and he's been... awful."

"Ex-supervisor," Jack repeated, eyebrows raising. "So you work here?"

"PhD candidate," she said quickly. "Political Science."

He stared at her.

"At MIT?"

She winced. "Yeah. I know."

Jack barked out a laugh, dragging a hand through his auburn hair. "Who the hell does Political Science at MIT, dawg?"