Crowds introduce uncontrollable variables.
I don’t fit in with people who wear jerseys as formal wear.
Yet, at 7:45 p.m., I was standing in front of the mirror in Room 317, adjusting the collar of a button-down shirt I hoped said “casual but competent.”
Luke was leaning against his dresser, arms crossed, watching me.He wore a gray henley that fit arguably too well and a beanie pulled low, his navy wool peacoat in his arms.
“You look like you’re heading to a court date,” he observed.
“I am attempting to blend in,” I corrected, smoothing a wrinkle.“Social camouflage is vital in high-density environments.”
“It’s Buckman Grill, Austen.Not a jungle.”He pushed off the dresser, grinning.“Lose the top button.You’ll suffocate.”
I undid the button.He was right; the air intake improved by four percent.
“Ryan says there’s a category on 80s rock,” Luke said, grabbing his keys.“He’s convinced he’s going to sweep it.I need you to fact-check him, so he doesn’t embarrass the program.”
“I am not a repository of hair-band trivia.”
“No, but you’re a walking encyclopedia for everything else.Consider yourself the special teams unit.”He opened the door, bowing slightly to gesture me through.“After you, Professor.”
I rolled my eyes but walked through.The hallway smelled of popcorn and floor wax.“If we lose, I’m giving you more financial accounting problems.”
“Fair stakes.”He joked as he casually slung an arm across my shoulder.
We walked across campus in the crisp November dark.The wind had teeth, but I barely felt it.Walking next to Luke made me feel safe.We fell into step effortlessly, his long stride matching my quicker pace.
“Shoulder holding up?”I asked, glancing at his left side.
“Dalton says I’m cleared for contact tomorrow.Pain’s a two.”
“Keep it a two.If you spike to a five because you tried to lift a pitcher of beer, I’m resigning as your tutor.”
“Understood.”He bumped my shoulder with his—gentle, controlled.“You’re bossy when you’re right.”
“I’m always right.It saves time.”
He laughed, a warm sound that heated the air between us.
The Buckman Grill was a sensory assault.
The noise hit first—a wall of bass, shouting, and clinking glass.Then the smell: fryer grease, stale hops, and too much cologne.
I hesitated in the doorway.This was a mistake.I should be in Ridgeway, grading quizzes.I felt the rise of a panic attack welling from inside me.
Luke’s hand settled on the small of my back.Light, barely there, but it anchored me instantly, all sense of anxiety fleeting with his touch.
“Table’s in the back,” he said, his voice low near my ear.I could feel his warm breath.“Follow me.”
