He leaned a hip against the desk, closer than before, but casual, like proximity was background noise now.His gaze landed on the puck centered under the desk lamp: black disk, NRU logo scratched from game collisions.
“Article five still stands,” he murmured.
“It’s weight-tested.”I reached out, spun the puck a quarter-turn so the gouge faced outward.“Constant.”
He didn’t reply.Watched my hand retreat, expression unreadable.In goalie gear, he hid behind fiberglass.Here, no mask, but still layers.
He picked up the legal pad, flipped through neon-striped pages.“Can I keep this?”
“Of course.”I slid a fresh pad from the drawer.“I have extras.Boundaries need paper.”
He tucked the used pad into his backpack.“Makes the cliff look climbable.”
“Cliffs are slopes with poor marketing.”
He huffed out a laugh so genuine it surprised both of us.The radiator thunked, restarting, benign percussion.
Quiet settled, softer now.Same silence as before, different charge.
Luke tipped his head toward the clock.22:47.“Lights in thirteen?”
“Quiet hours, yes.”
He bent, collected stray pencil shavings in his palm, deposited them in the trash.Each motion neat, absorbed, as if he found calm in closure tasks.The discipline made sense—crease cleanup in human form.
I wiped the desk surface with a microfiber cloth—fingerprint smudges gone.When I finished, he stood beside my chair, hands empty.
“Can I ask something?”he said.
“Within reason.”
He glanced at the door, the puck, then me.“You’re spending a lot of hours on this.With me.You could be picking up paid tutoring shifts.Or working on your thesis.”
Not the question I expected.“My thesis is two weeks ahead of schedule.And my finances are solvent.Even after that alternator issue.”
“Humor me,” he pressed.“You’re burning prime hours on basic accounting.What’syourROI?”
I capped the highlighter, setting it in its slot with a precise click.“Return on Investment isn’t always monetary, Luke.Sometimes it’s environmental.”
He frowned.“Meaning?”
“Meaning that when you are stressed, the room is chaotic.When you are failing, the ambient anxiety in here increases.Helping you stabilize your GPA stabilizes my living environment.”
“So, I’m a noise reduction project?”
“You’re a variable,” I corrected.“And I prefer my variables controlled.”
“That sounds cold.”
“It’s efficient.”
He shook his head, looking down at his hands.“It feels lopsided, Austen.You’re saving my ass, and I’m just… here.Reciprocity shouldn’t mean you’re working for free.”
I clicked off the desk lamp, leaving only the blue glow of his computer screen between us.
“Your math is off,” I said softly.“Helping you is not a cost center.”
“Feels like one.”
