I pick a piece that isn’t too smelly and nibble it. It tastes sharp and poignant and a little nutty. Not bad.

“This one’s yummy,” I say.

Braden smiles. “A little better than dorm food, right?”

He opens the fridge again and pulls out two giant, blood-red strip steaks. “So I was thinking—” he says as he opens cabinet after cabinet, obviously not familiar with where anything is “—we could do New Year’s Day for the next big launch.” He pulls a large frying pan from one of the cabinets and sets it on the stove, turns on the Brunner, then drizzles the pan with olive oil.

He throws the steaks into the pan, and they immediately start to sizzle.

“It’ll be after the holidays when everyone is sad they didn’t have people to bring home, and with Valentine’s Day looming in the near future.” He is pulling spices off the rack and throwing them on the steaks, seemingly without rhyme or reason.

“So I’m thinking people will be really desperate and prime targets for the app.”

I frown. “It sounds so bad when you say it like that.”

“It’s true though.” He leans against the counter and picks up his wineglass.

I give in to the game of it. “Plus, there’s the whole no-one-to-kiss-at-midnight thing with New Year’s Eve.”

“Exactly!” He raises his glass. “See, I knew you were a little evil genius too.”

I roll my eyes but take the compliment.

He puts a lid on the food. “Let’s go take a picture,” he says. “While it cooks.”

“Uh, okay,” I say. I set down my glass and follow him out the door to the balcony.

“Over here,” he says, pointing to the railing. I walk over the slats, hoping the wine or my shoes won’t make me fall.

“Stand like this, against the edge... Okay, put your arm on it like this.” He positions my left arm so that it’s resting against the railing, as if I was just chilling here casually, for some reason facing away from the beautiful view. Nothing about this feels casual though. “Okay, good. And then turn like three-quarters toward me—perfect.” He backs up and snaps a few pictures on his phone.

“Pretend like you are laughing,” he says. I do so and feel super awkward. “Yeah like that, act happy.”

I thought I was.

“Yeah, one of these should work,” he says without looking up from the screen.

“How do I look?” I try to catch a glimpse of the picture, but he doesn’t turn the screen toward me.

He swipes and taps at the screen, gaze glued to his phone.

I clear my throat and try again. “Can I see?”

“Yeah...” He clicks a few more buttons. “Here.” He smiles and hands me the phone.

It’s open to his Instagram account. The girl in his most recent post—me—stares back at me.