Ryan’s laugh echoed down the vestibule.“Text me when you’re free.We’ll celebrate nobody turning into a pumpkin.Tell Austen I said hi.”
“Will do.”
Ryan headed for the parking lot.
I shouldered my bag again—lighter now—and stepped into the late afternoon chill.
North Point at 8:30 p.m.was a different world—lights dimmed, only one grill open.
I spotted Austen at our regular table.Maya sat across from him, headphones in, laptop haloing her face.
Austen’s eyes tracked me from the moment I cleared the sneeze guard.No guarded tilt, no calculation.Recognition.
I slid into the chair beside him.“Made good on fries,” I said, dropping a cardboard boat of sweet potato wedges between us.
He nudged a cup my way.“Extra milk, one sugar.”
I stole a fry.“Coach told me the crease is mine next season.”
“Variable promoted to constant,” he said, soft enough that only I heard.
Maya peeled off her headphones.“Is that math flirting?Because I’m officially charging a finder’s fee.”
Austen handed her half the fries.“Consulting fee paid.”
She accepted with a grin.“You two signing the lease agreement tomorrow?”
I glanced at Austen.“Eleven, right?”
“Landlord confirmed.”He opened his planner—actual paper, color-coded tabs—and circled the slot in green.
Ryan banged through the doors, Javier in tow.They spotted us and detoured, dropping a slice of plain pizza onto our table like tribute.
“O-kay, nerd conclave,” Ryan announced.“Who’s grading me for calories?”
“Three hundred sixty,” Austen said without looking up.
Javier clapped my shoulder.“Coach said you’re stone next season if you don’t break.”
“Planning on neither,” I answered.
He tilted his head at Austen.“You’re the contingency.”
“I prefer ‘statistical safeguard,’” Austen countered, mouth twitching.
We ate until the trays were empty.When the room emptied out, Austen stacked our trash with clinical precision.
“Home?”he asked.
“Yeah.”I brushed my knuckles against his.He didn’t pull away.
The apartment building sat three blocks off campus, beige siding and a couple of stubborn snow piles along the curb that just wouldn’t melt.
The landlord—an older woman named Nora—met us on the porch at 11:02 holding a manila envelope.
“You boys have the cashier’s check?”she asked, cutting straight to the chase.
“Bank certified,” I confirmed, patting my pocket.
