We walked side by side, hands deep in our pockets.We didn’t hold hands—too open, too risky under the streetlights—but we walked close enough that our arms bumped with every step.
Bump.Bump.Bump.
A Morse code of contact.I’m here.I’m here.I’m here.
“I think I learned something tonight,” Luke said, kicking a drift of snow.
“What?”
“That the stacks are incredibly hot.”
I laughed, the sound puffing out in a white cloud.“They are temperature controlled at sixty-eight degrees.”
“That’s not what I meant, Math.”
He looked at me, grinning, snowflakes catching in his eyelashes.
We reached Stony Creek Hall.Luke swiped his card, held the door.
We walked up the stairs, down the hall, past the RA’s door, past the EDM guy.
We reached Room 317.
I unlocked it.We stepped inside.
The door clicked shut.The lock engaged.
The public world vanished.
Luke didn’t wait.He dropped his bag and pulled me in, his icy hands framing my face, his mouth finding mine with a hunger that had been building for three hours of silence.
I gripped his sweater, pulling him closer, safe in the only variable that mattered.
Chapter 23
Duplication Error
Austen
“What’s the error probability if I double-side these?”
I asked out loud so I wouldn’t think about Luke’s hand on my waist six hours earlier.The Ridgeway copier chugged, indifferent.Curling steam from the exit slot fogged my glasses; I pushed them up with a knuckle and kept feeding the tray.
Seventy-two Calc II quizzes, duplex.My left thumb had a new paper cut—evidence I still lived in a world where toner mattered.
Luke’s hoodie hung around my shoulders, long enough that the cuffs swallowed my wrists.I’d grabbed it by accident—or muscle memory—when I left the room.Smelled like detergent and faint eucalyptus from his shower gel.I’d tried not to notice.
Packet forty-three caught, jam icon blinked.I popped the front panel, rescued the crimped sheet, smoothed the crease on my thigh.The machine spat a scolding beep.
“Live,” I muttered, closing the panel.Copy cycle resumed.
Someone cleared a throat behind me.I turned, half expecting Maya’s raised eyebrow, but it was Luke—sweats, beanie, backpack slung single-strap.Fresh from weights, probably en route to business psych.Normal schedule.Normal roommate.No big deal that I’d fallen asleep with my face tucked against his collarbone.
He held two coffees, the campus-brand cardboard sleeves aligned like they’d passed inspection.“Printer coffee,” he said.“Black, two sugars.”
I took the closer cup; heat stung the paper cut.“Quality control?”
“Barista owed me for spotting her rink-side tickets.”He gestured at the copier.“Jam day?”
