"Don't eat it—did you steal my breakfast or not?" Valerie snapped, slapping a hand away from the open sandwich box. Silence pinched the TechCore kitchen. Coffee dripped. A barista from the lobby pushed a cart past the glass wall. People froze mid-swipe of phones. Clayton Fontana blinked, then smiled like he owned the morning. He held the sandwich as if it were an accessory, not evidence. "I thought it was communal," he said, voice smooth. "My bad? Your sandwich looks amazing, though. What is that—sourdough? Prosciutto?" "You don't take my lunch." Valerie's voice was flat. Sharp. She set her mug down so hard steam jumped. "You don't touch my stuff. Ever." A few heads turned. Heidi Deleon hovered by the espresso machine, balancing a paper cup like a prop. Two people from product development held overflowing to-go bags and watched like this was somebody else's episode. Clayton's charm tilted into performance. He stepped closer, practiced, casual. "Alright, alright. No need to—" His hand moved, slow, toward her shoulder. It was meant to soothe. It was meant to own the moment. Valerie's palm found his wrist before the touch landed. She squeezed. Hard. The hand retracted. The sandwich box clattered. Clayton took a breath like he'd been cut. "You're not my roommate, Clayton." Her words were quiet but they landed in the open plan like a bell. "You don't get to touch my—" "She hit me." Clayton