He grinned, took a swig of his diluted sports drink, and flopped into the desk chair backward, knees draped over the armrests.“What are you working on?”
“Eigenvalue proofs.”
“Sounds lethal.”
“To non-math majors, yes.”I opened the bar wrapper.“How was practice today?”
“Javier landed three top-corner shots on my glove side in six minutes.My ego’s limping.”He massaged his left shoulder, winced.“Icepack calling.”
He rummaged in the freezer and pulled out his bag of peas.He pressed the pack against his shoulder, hissing.“You ever stare at numbers so long they rearrange themselves?”
“Daily.”
He whistled low.“We’re not so different, then.I track shooters, you track numbers.”
I held his gaze a second longer than intended.Something in the way he said “we” nudged that carefully parked unknown variable closer.I broke eye contact, pretending the wrapper demanded immediate recycling.
He shifted the pack, easing a sigh.“Tomorrow’s practice ends at nine.After that, I’m free until weights at four.If you need uninterrupted crunch time, claim it.”
“I might.”
“Consider it booked.”He rose, rotated his arm.He gave a quick salute and crossed to his bed, stretching calves against the frame.Every move economical.I recognized the instinct.
The AC compressor shuddered on, right on schedule.Luke snapped his fingers in rhythm—a plastic-on-metal rattle—and mumbled the melody of some song.I capped my pen.
“Let the record show,” I said, “the AC makes better percussion than your rubber ball.”
He laughed, bright and unguarded, and for three seconds the noise didn’t feel invasive.
By ten, silence reclaimed the room.
Luke lay flat on his stomach, sports medicine book propped against pillows, highlighter uncapped.I finished the last grade entry, closed my laptop, and stretched until vertebrae popped.
“Lights?”he offered.
“Give me one minute.”I printed the guidelines in smaller font, laminated with packing tape, and smoothed them on the mini-fridge door: roommate constitution, version 1.0.
Luke watched, amused.“Should I sign?”
“Optional.”
He reached for the dry-erase marker, scrawledL.Carter 09/09, then drew a tiny goalie glove next to his name.
The gesture shouldn’t have mattered, but the validation settled something in my chest.I flipped off the desk lamp.
Darkness, except the streetlight halo bleeding through blinds.I climbed into bed, listening to Luke shuffle pages.
“Austen?”he whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Window’s closed, but if the room ever smells bad, say something.”
“I will.”
“Night.”
“Night,” I echoed.
