Steven Meeks liked things that made sense. Equations, formulas, patterns—there was comfort in logic, in predictability.

So why, then, did you make absolutely no sense at all?

“You’re staring,” Pitts muttered, not looking up from his book.

Meeks blinked, startled. “I—no, I’m not.”

Pitts sighed. “Meeks, you’ve read the same sentence five times.”

Meeks opened his mouth to argue, but—fine. Maybe he was staring. But it wasn’t his fault that you were sitting across the room, completely unaware of the way the afternoon light caught on your hair, how your brow furrowed slightly when you were lost in thought.

It was… scientifically unfair.

“You should talk to her,” Pitts suggested, nudging his arm.

Meeks scoffed. “And say what? ‘Hello, I’ve done an extensive mental analysis and determined that I have a statistically significant crush on you’?”

Pitts smirked. “Well, it’s a start.”

Meeks groaned, burying his face in his hands.

There had to be a logical way out of this.

But for the first time in his life, logic wasn’t helping at all.