*****
The dining hall feels almost Parisian this morning. The air is warm with the scent of butter and sugar — croissants fresh out of the oven, pain au chocolate lined up in baskets like little pieces of heaven, and coffee so rich it curls around you like velvet.
There's the faint sound of clinking china, the low hum of morning chatter, and sunlight spilling through the tall windows in soft golden stripes, making the whole room glow like a postcard.
The plates stacked with flaky pastries, glossy fruit tarts, perfectly folded omelets, and fresh berries that look like they belong in a magazine spread.
We slide into a table near the window, and for a second, I swear it feels like we're tucked into some café along the Seine, not a college campus.
Time slips by without me even realizing it, the three of us working our way through breakfast. Sam's busy drowning her strawberry pancakes in syrup, I've got my avocado tartine with coffee and fruit, keeping it simple.
Then there's Zach.
Of course he went and ordered half the menu—sausages, croissants, a bacon-cheese omelet, those pastry squares with eggs baked right in the middle, plus a giant bowl of fruit cocktail.
Not exactly shocking. He's always been a heavy eater—comes with the territory when you're burning calories on the ice every day.
Still, it's kind of crazy how much food a hockey player can put away.
And, weirdly enough, almost everything on his plates happens to be my old breakfast go-to's. The omelet. The egg pastries. Even the croissants. Coincidence? Probably.
At one point, when he notices my plate's empty, Zach casually nudges the omelet closer. No words, no push—just that subtle little move.
I act like I didn't notice, because one tartine already have me stuffed to capacity.
Sam's halfway through her stack of pancakes when she groans, stabbing her fork into a strawberry.
"You guys don't get it," she whines dramatically. "My Philosophy professor? He's a monster. I swear he feeds off panic. Like, he enjoys watching his students sweat bullets."
Zach raises a brow, smirking. "Oh yeah? What's his method? Fire-breathing? Pop quizzes from hell?"
"No," Sam says, eyes widening like she's telling a ghost story. "He carries this little deck of index cards. Each one has our name and photo on it, like some twisted playing card collection. He just shuffles them mid-class, pulls one out,real slow, like thegrim reaper deciding who dies next. Then boom—he calls your name. You stand, you answer, or you get roasted alive."
She saws off a slice of pancake, stuffs it in her mouth, and mutters through the chew, "It's like Russian roulette...but with Plato."
Zach snorts into his orange juice, nearly choking. "Wait—wait, let me guess. Professor Dalton?"
Sam's fork freezes midair. "Yes!"
"Iknewit!" Zach leans back, shaking his head with a laugh.
"I had him freshman year. That old man was a nightmare. Every Monday, my friends and I would literally walk to class like we were marching to the gallows. You couldhearthe collective dread in the hallway. Someone even made a meme of him with the caption'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.'"
Sam wheezes. "I believe it. Helivesfor our suffering."
I roll my eyes, sipping my water. "Honestly, I don't see why you're both so terrified. If you actually study and prepare, it's not that hard. You'd be ready with the answer. It's not rocket science—it's basic effort."
They both whip their heads toward me with identical scowls.
And then, in perfect twin-like unison, they deadpan: "Of courseyou'dsay that, Miss Straight-A-Eats-Extra-Credit-For-Breakfast."
I burst out laughing, nearly spilling my drink. Zach and Sam grin at each other smugly, pleased with their synchronized attack.
And suddenly I'm back in time. Like muscle memory. The three of us laughing like this—it's too familiar. Too easy.
It feels like elementary school all over again, Zach stealing my juice box just to be a jerk, Sam egging him on while I whined about it. It feels like middle school bus rides, crammed in the back seat, whispering jokes about our teachers and trying not to get caught. High school pizza runs after games, the three of ussqueezed into a booth, grease on our hands, laughing so hard I swore my stomach would explode.
I didn't realize how much I missed this until right now. The kind of stupid, comfortable normal that used to be our default setting.
