His second patent, which he finished while still at RISD, was a needle that could sense blood flow under the skin of newborns and children, minimizing bad sticks and bruising (and misery). He could’ve sold that one; instead, he made the design free, as Jonas Salk had done with the polio vaccine. He co-designed a battery-powered tool that replaced the old-fashioned mallet orthopedic surgeons used in joint replacement, then reworked the design for pediatric patients. Now he was working on a warming bed for premature babies that would sense drops in their heart rate and breathing.

He was incredible. Brilliant, philanthropic, hardworking, focused, driven, kind.

He also lost track of time, went days without showering and had terrible eating habits—takeout way too often, or dinner consisting of Flamin’ Hot Doritos because quite often, he simply didn’t hear the buzzer or see the text from the delivery service. He made several pots of coffee every day but forgot to take more than a sip or two, resulting in numerous mugs lurking on flat surfaces, the bitter smell of old grounds thick in the air.

In essence, he was a hermit. A beautiful hermit with a bad haircut and terrible clothes.

“Why don’t you have your own company?” she asked, sitting one night in his sad living quarters. “You know, a giant eco-friendly building with meditation rooms and massage therapists roaming the halls, looking for tight shoulders. On-site daycare, company retreats in the Himalayas . . .”

He smiled. “You could design the space for me.”

It was her profession, after all. “Done. I’d even give you a discount.”

“I’m not really that kind of guy. I like being alone.” He blushed a little. “But I also like having you here.”

She felt a warm squeeze of pleasure. “And why is that?”

He shrugged, biting down on a smile. “You smell nice.”

“Better than stale coffee and old pizza?”

“Let’s not get crazy.” Then he kissed her, his mouth slow and warm, his hands pretty damn excellent for a guy who didn’t get out much, and yes, she was in love.