“I don’t always understand feelings.I have no problem admitting that.But I do know that feelings aren’t ledger entries.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and exhaled.“I just don’t want to be the reason you fall behind.”
“I don’t fall behind,” I said, meeting his eyes.“And honestly?Dealing with your logic puzzles is… a relief.It’s better than arguing with Dr.Thorne about vectors.”
“So, I’m a distraction,” Luke said, a small smile touching his lips.
“You’re a necessary deviation from the mean.”I rose, brushing past him to hang the microfiber cloth on its hook.“Now, sleep.You have practice before the crack of dawn.”
His lips parted like he might argue, but instead he nodded.A simple, wordlessokaythat folded itself into the space between our beds.
Lights-out time.He moved first, flicking the overhead.Darkness swallowed the corners; streetlamp glow striped the ceiling.
I crossed to my bed, peeled back the blanket.Mattress dipped beneath me.He mirrored, sitting on his own, positioning the shoulder carefully.Springs sighed.
Silence again.
I turned to my side, facing away from Luke.Cold leaked in; radiator compensated.Behind me, Luke adjusted the blanket, springs creaked once more, then stilled.
Five ticks of the radiator.
“Austen.”
“Mm?”I kept eyes on streetlight glare.
“Thanks for making the rink smaller.”
I didn’t correct the metaphor.“Thanks for making the classroom quieter.”
No reply, but the mattress opposite rustled, like he’d turned to face me across eight feet of half-dark.
More radiator ticks.Nine, ten, eleven.
Outside, drunk freshmen launched into an off-key fight song.Luke huffed a soft laugh.“Vectors misfiring,” he whispered.
I answered without thinking.“Ignore amplitude, track trajectory.”
He chuckled, low.The mattresses quieted; breathing leveled under the radiator’s hiss.
Tick.
Tick.
Somewhere beyond the hallway, a door slammed, feet pounded stairs.None of it breached the room’s new equilibrium.
Luke spoke again, words feather-soft.“We iterate tomorrow?”
“We iterate.”
Tick.
Tick.
I closed my eyes, counted another cycle, waited for sleep.
Before drift, his voice slipped across the dark one last time—barely audible:
“Good night, constant.”
