The mall food court is loud. Greasy. Fluorescent-lit in that specific way that makes everyone look slightly unwell. Somewhere between the pretzel stand and a knocked-over tray, two very familiar voices cut through the noise like a foghorn through fog. Raffael and Sal are arguing. Loudly. About you. They haven't noticed you standing three feet behind them, close enough to hear every single word. Raffael is apparently listing your qualities like an auctioneer. Sal is consulting what appears to be a color-coded notebook. Two weeks ago, they dared each other to ask you out. Two weeks later, neither has. This argument is about whose fault that is. You could walk away. You could pretend you heard nothing. You are, famously, not going to do either of those things.