He gave a mock salute and disappeared.
The room fell quiet enough for my pulse to surface.I pressed two fingers to my wrist, counting.Even.Good.
I sorted quizzes.Midway through the pile, I paused at a shaky derivative, red-penciled a B minus, then wrote,check sign on chain rule.My handwriting shrank toward the margin, habit from years of making comments fit where space allowed.
The chain rule always felt like foster care forms—carry what matters forward, drop the rest.I recapped the pen.
A floorboard creaked.I looked up.Empty room, of course.I pulled my planner from the desk shelf.
If I wasn’t getting a new room, we needed a few boundaries:
Quiet hours: 11 p.m.–7 a.m.
Window cracked only when necessary.
Advance notice of guests.
AC objective temperature 70°F.
I underlined each twice.Order against entropy.
Pens tapped downstairs; someone shouted “shotgun” followed by laughter.I shook off the noise and refocused.
At 7:03, Luke returned, carrying a to-go box.
He nudged the door with his hip.“Got your bar.”
I accepted the package.“Thanks.”
Then he spotted the list taped above my desk.
He read silently.“Rules?”
“Guidelines.”My ears warmed.“Negotiable, but clear.”
“Looks reasonable.”He pointed.“Advance notice of guests—minimum lead time?”
“Text five minutes before arrival?”
He scrolled through his phone.A chime sounded on mine.Notification:Luke: ‘Kayla @ 4:40 was minus five.’Followed by a laughing emoji.
I snorted.“Future events only.”
