Her husband had warned her. Weeks ago. “Hosting academics in our house? That’s how cults start.”

But she hadn’t listened. Because technically, it wasn’t a cult. It was just a department holiday dinner. A normal one. With charcuterie. And a playlist called “Festive But Smart.”

By the time the third couple walked in wearing tweed and tension, she knew she’d made a mistake.

The living room was full of people with PhDs and poor social skills, debating the ethics of peer review while trying not to spill brie on the furniture. She was one group project away from a meltdown.

Still, it was going okay. Until they showed up.

Jonathan Levy and Mira. Married. Brilliant. Deeply terrifying in that “we’ve weaponized our trauma into verbal chess” kind of way.

They made it 40 minutes before detonating.

It started subtle: a pointed comment about someone’s sabbatical. A tight smile. A sip of wine that felt more like a warning.

Then Mira said something about “abandoning responsibility,” and Jonathan replied with something about “intellectual cowardice,” and suddenly they were off to the races—in front of everyone.

Voices sharp. Eyes sharper. The kind of argument that didn’t need context because it came with its own cinematic score.

She tried not to watch. Truly. She focused on the dip. The rug. The wine stain forming near the credenza. But academic rage has gravity.

And right as she debated whether to fake a sudden migraine, Mira turned and—God help her—asked her a question.

She blinked. The room stared.

Her husband whispered, “Just say you blacked out.”

Yeah. Next year, they were ordering pizza and calling it a day.