He nods as though he understands. “She’d have butchered you awake.”

“Right? She wasn’t exactly forgiving. And I’m not complaining—I owe her so much. She truly helped me become a better scientist, but everyone in my team treats me as though I’m some infant engineer who doesn’t know what an ohm is, and—” Why am I still talking? “Well, everyone except for Ted, but I’m not sure whether he actually respects me or is just trying to get laid, since he’s already asked me out, like, three times, which makes things kind of awkward . . .”

Liam’s face instantly hardens. His spoon sets in the bowl with a loud clink. “This is sexual harassment.”

“Oh, no.”

“At the very least, it’s highly inappropriate.”

“No, it’s not like that—”

“I can talk to him.”

I blink. “What?”

“What’s his last name?” Liam asks, like it’s a totally normal question. “I can talk to him. Explain that he has made you uncomfortable and he should stop—”

“What?” I let out a laugh. “Liam, I’m not going to tell you his last name. What are you gonna do, pour a barrel of oil on his house?”

He looks away. Like it was an option.

“No, I . . . I actually like Ted. He’s nice. I mean, I’ve even considered saying yes. Why not, right?” Why not? is what Helena would say, but Liam’s expression darkens at that. Or maybe it’s just my entire soul, darkening at the idea of putting on eyeliner to go out with a guy who’s perfectly fine and excites me as much as boiled spinach. “It’s just that . . .” I shrug. How to explain that I am forever uninspired by the men I meet? I won’t even bother. It’s not like he cares. “Thank you, though,” I add.

He looks like he’d like to insist, but just says, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Um. Okay.” I guess I have a six-foot-three mountain of muscles in my corner now? It’s kinda nice. I should make soup more often. “So, since I have you here,” and to avoid dropping into awkward silence again, “what’s up with the pictures?”

“The pictures?”

“The black-and-white pictures of trees and lakes and stuff. Hanging on literally every single wall.”

“I just like to take them.”

“Wait. You took the pictures yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Does that mean that you’ve actually been to all those places?”

He swallows a spoonful of soup, nodding. “It’s mostly national parks. A few state ones. Canada, too.”

I’m a little shocked. Not only are the pictures good, professional-level good, but . . . “Okay”—I point at the frame behind the table, an image of a mobius arc in what looks like Sierra Nevada—“this is not the work of someone who hates the environment.”

He gives me a puzzled look. “And I hate the environment?”

“Yes!” I blink. “No?”

He shrugs. “I might not compost my own feces or hold my breath to avoid emitting CO₂, but I do like nature.”