“We’ve exchanged enough information for cohabitation purposes.”
“Austen.”She set down her spoon.“That’s not talking.That’s a terms-of-service agreement.”
“I wasn’t aware roommates required emotional bandwidth.”
“They don’t.But you’re already cataloging his sleep schedule and shower habits.”She raised an eyebrow.“That’s more attention than you gave your last three lab partners combined.”
“Survival metrics.Entirely practical.”
“Mmm hmm.”The sound carried an entire thesis of skepticism.“Just promise me you’ll say more than ten words to him before the semester ends.”
“I’ll consider twelve if he stops leaving his stickhandling ball in the middle of the floor.”
She saluted with the soup spoon.“Text me updates.Especially if he offers a private stickhandling lesson.”
I beat Luke back to the room.
The chill hit first—someone had set the window unit at arctic blast.I spun the dial down to low, then faced the room.His gear bag was open on top of his desk, gloves drying over a vent.A faint rubber-sweat mix hung in the air, familiar from every gym corridor on campus.
I stepped around the stickhandling ball in the middle of the floor, “accidentally” toe-poking it until it rolled under his bed.
Then, I turned to my desk.
It was too cluttered.The messiness was making my skin itch.I rearranged immediately: office supplies on the left, laptop centered, calculators on the right,—aligned parallel to the edge—and all of my writing utensils nicely stored in a metal pencil holder—writing tips pointed down.
The act slowed my heart to its usual cadence.
It was an old reflex, a hangover from the system.When you grow up sleeping in bedrooms that belong to other people’s kids, or in group homes where privacy is a theoretical concept, you learn to keep your perimeter tight.If your things are scattered, they’re vulnerable.If they are aligned, cataloged, and locked down, they are yours.
I ran a finger along the edge of the stapler.Perfect alignment.
For tonight, at least, I controlled this variable.
Then came the heavy artillery.I pulled a massive hardbound book from my bag and dropped it onto the wood surface with a thud that made the bedsprings vibrate.Advanced Topology.Dr.Aris Thorne had warned us that her thesis requirements would make grown men weep.I intended to be the exception.
The door latch clicked.Luke walked in, hair damp from a shower.I refused to look at his naked torso, but I stole a glimpse, anyway.
“Hey,” he said.
I raised a hand.“You survived practice and your first day of class.”
“Barely.Harper skated us after scrimmage.The ice felt soft with this humidity.”He toed off sneakers, noticing the glove on the vent.“Sorry about the smell.Needs to dry or it rots.”
“It’s fine.”I nudged my chair under the desk.“Vent’s communal property.”
He grinned as if that was a joke, though I’d meant it literally.“I’ll crack the window a minute.Let some real air in.”
The sash squealed open the whole six inches we were able to open the windows.Warm, damp air slashed in; the glove fluttered.Luke braced a textbook against the sill to keep it from slamming shut.
I pressed save on my code file, realized I’d done no work since entering.“Got class in twenty.Mind if I change?”
“Do your thing.”He grabbed a protein shake from the fridge and drank half without breathing.Then he glanced at my polo shirt and dress pants—slate gray, low on style, high on function.“You presenting?”
“TA session.They expect us to dress professionally.”I smoothed the collar.
“Looks sharp.”He said it casually, like stating the hallway color.Compliment or observation?Hard to tell.Either way it unsettled.
I buried my nose in my textbook, gripping the edges like a steering wheel.Behind me, the wardrobe door creaked.The softwhumpof a damp towel hitting the floor followed.
