“You have good technique,” he noted.
“Chemistry is cooking with higher stakes.Macaroni is forgiving.”
I dumped the noodles into the boiling water.They hit the surface with a splash that echoed off the tile walls.
“My dad has a chef,” Luke said.He was staring at the blue flame of the burner.“Every Thanksgiving.Catered.Perfect turkey, perfect sides.We eat in the formal dining room.It’s quiet.You can hear the silverware hit the china.”
I stirred the pasta.It was turning a translucent, gummy white.“Sounds expensive.”
“It was a performance review,” he corrected.“Last year he brought a tablet to the table to show me a breakdown of goalie stats for the incoming freshman class.Told me I needed to ‘eat hungry’ because they were coming for my spot.”
He laughed, but it was a hollow sound.“I realized yesterday… I’m the starter.I’m posting shutouts.And I became physically ill just thinking about walking through his front door.”
I turned down the heat.The steam rose between us, smelling of processed cheese and comfort.I dumped the powdered cheese packet in.It exploded in a cloud of neon orange dust.
“My eighth-grade foster home,” I offered, staring into the pot as the sauce turned a nuclear shade of tangerine.“They forgot to set a place for me.Everyone sat down, and there wasn’t a chair.The dad had to go to the garage to get a folding chair.I ate off a TV tray at the corner of the table.”
Luke went still.“Austen.”
“It’s fine.It was a learning experience,” I said, shrugging.“Taught me not to rely on assigned seating.”
Luke slid off the counter.He walked over to the stove, standing next to me.Close—close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him through his sweater.
“You have a seat here,” he said quietly.
I looked up.His eyes were dark and serious.No sarcasm, no deflection.Steady, terrifying sincerity.
“Here,” he repeated, gesturing to the grim basement kitchen, the bubbling pot of orange sludge, the empty dorm above us.“With me.”
My heart stuttered against my ribs.“The mac and cheese is ready.”
“Good.”He grabbed two plastic bowls from the drying rack.“Because I’m starving.”
We ate on the floor of Room 317, sitting cross-legged with our bowls.I had added the peas and cubed the Spam (pan-fried first, I’m not a savage).
It was, objectively, a sodium bomb of questionable texture.The sauce was too thick, gluey, and coated the roof of my mouth.The peas were mushy, and the Spam was salty enough to pickle a tongue.
“This,” Luke said around a mouthful, “is the best meal I’ve had in months.”
“Your palate is broken.”
“No.It’s…” He pointed his fork at me.“Quiet.No expectations.No school, no hockey.”
“Just mushy goo?”
He chuckled, scraping the bottom of his bowl.We finished eating and set the dishes aside, but neither of us moved.The radiator hissed—our third roommate, keeping time.
Luke stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands.He looked relaxed in a way I rarely saw—shoulders loose, jaw unclenched.The silence wasn’t heavy anymore.It felt safe.
“What are you doing for the rest of the break?”he asked.
“Working.Reading.Maybe sleeping more than four hours.”
“Want company?”
I looked at him.“You’re staying?The whole weekend?”
“Yeah.Unless you kick me out.”He shifted, his knee brushing mine.He didn’t pull back.“Maybe you can help me understand financial accounting better.Or play chess.Or… exist.”
