The silence stretched.I felt exposed.Luke Carter, with his expensive Division I gear and his seemingly endless meal points, probably didn’t understand what it meant to have your entire future jeopardized by a car part.
“You hungry?”he asked abruptly.
I blinked.“I missed dinner.”
“Good.Because I’m starving and I’m not eating North Point rubber chicken tonight.There’s a diner up the road.My treat.”
“Luke, I can’t—”
“My gas, my rules,” he said, voice firm.“Consider it payment for the radiator fix.”
I opened my mouth to argue the inequity of that exchange—manual labor on a valve versus gasoline and chauffeur services—but he pulled into the Galaxy Diner before I could formulate the equation.
The diner was a sensory overload of neon and grease.We slid into a booth.
I ordered a grilled cheese and tomato soup—the cheapest warm thing on the menu.Luke ordered a burger the size of a human head.
When the waitress left, I wrapped my hands around the mug of tea, trying to leach the last of the cold from my fingers.
“I almost didn’t call you,” I admitted.The words felt heavy, but necessary.
“Why?”
“Because asking for help introduces a debt variable,” I said, staring at the steam.“In the system—foster care—you learn fast that favors come with interest.Nothing is free.If someone gives you a ride, they want something.If they buy you dinner, you owe them.”
I risked a glance up.
Luke looked angry.Not at me.His jaw was tight, a muscle jumping near his ear.
“I’m a person, not a bank,” he said sharply.
I flinched.
He saw it and softened.He leaned forward, his massive shoulders blocking out the rest of the diner.
“In hockey,” he said, “you get an assist if you pass the puck to the guy who scores.It doesn’t mean you own the goal.It just means you helped get it there.That’s it.No interest.No debt.”
The waitress dropped our food.Steam rose from my soup.
I stared at it.“The assist,” I repeated.
“Yeah.You set me up with the radiator noise the other day when I was… when I needed cover.That was an assist.This is just me passing the puck back.”
I picked up my spoon.I looked at Luke.He wasn’t keeping a ledger.He wasn’t calculating ROI.He was playing the game.
The knot of anxiety in my chest loosened, just a fraction.
“The alternator is going to wipe out my savings for an apartment deposit, so I could live off campus next year,” I said quietly.The most honest thing I’d said to anyone in years.“That’s why I’m stressed.I’ve been saving for months.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Luke said, dipping a fry in ketchup.“August is a long way off.Constants change.”
I cracked a smile.“Variables change, Luke.Constants remain constant.That’s the definition.”
“Nerd,” he said, grinning.“Eat your sandwich.”
We ate.And for the first time in hours, I wasn’t doing math.I was existing.
Midway through the meal, the waitress swung by with a milkshake.“On the house.Vanilla.”
