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“Yeah? Well, you can cook for me anytime.” I laugh with a quick shake of my head, pulling away and sliding back into my chair. “I’m kind of bad about remembering to feed myself.”

And . . . frugal. Scholarship money is great, but the small included meal plan is potentially problematic. So I save when I can.

It’s not hard. I’m used to making it work and going without. My mom was inconsistent in her care of me early enough that I learned to grocery shop and fend for myself before I got my first period. I learned to take care of myself as best I could.

Something I’ve said seems to bother Bennett, but he clenches a fist around his backpack strap and lets it go, maneuvering into the chair opposite mine and pulling out his laptop and notebooks.

I grab another one of the cookies and bite into it, a moan escaping my throat at the taste.

Bennett coughs, blushing red as he turns back to the screen of his laptop.

“These are amazing, Bennett.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, before pulling a black pen from his bag.

The poetry project is pretty open-ended—choose one poem each and trade, do an analysis, and then write a reimagined poem in any style. Dr. Britton told us to think outside the box and really get creative with it.

Today we focus on choosing the poems.

Before we can start, Bennett hands me a pack of ballpoint pens. I frown, staring at them on the table between us, then at the pen in my hand, and finally up at his eyes.

Anxiety is clearly written across his face. Bennett readjusts his hat before staring down at the pens.

Last session, I’d written across his work in my blue ink pen, not thinking much about it. But he’d been anxious the rest of the time and I saw him throw away the entire sheet during our break, starting over with his own black pen.

“I use these. So, I got you some. It’s—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head and swallowing loudly. “It’s embarrassing, I’m sorry. But I just . . .”

I don’t say I understand because I don’t. But if this helps him, it’s fine with me.

“It’s not embarrassing, Bennett. It’s fine.” I take the pens and break open the pack, tossing my usual dark blue one back into the front pocket of my backpack. I take one and draw a swirl over the end of my notebook.

“These things are fancy,” I tease, trying to lessen the grimace still on his face. “Thanks for buying them for me.”

He nods but doesn’t comment, only resets his notebook by his laptop. I let it go.

Bennett works silently, as do I, but we both sneak glances at each other. I sit on my hands to keep from reaching for him.

An hour into the session, he suddenly straightens in his chair, grappling for his phone to check the time before softly cursing—a word I haven’t heard from him yet. After throwing his things into his bag, he stands and looks at me a little panicked.

“I need to walk Seven,” he says. “My dog.”

I nod. “I remember.”

He turns on his heel and leaves before I can say anything. But I’ve already started to pack so it doesn’t take me long to run and catch up with his lengthy strides.

“Bennett?” I call, not stopping him but walking side by side. “Can I come?”

His brow furrows as his hands fidget. He slows his pace just slightly. “You want to walk my dog with me?”

“Yeah,” I say brightly with a shrug. “Could be fun.”

Bennett’s mild concern melts into a gentle smile.

We leave the library and walk to the other side of campus, where the large, expensive “dorm” rooms sit. I shouldn’t be so shocked when Bennett stops in front of one of the attached townhomes.

“Seven is . . . a quiet dog.” It’s all he says, but his fingers are twitching, drawing shapes on his thigh; a nervous habit I’ve seen from him before.

“If it’s going to make him anxious”—or you—“I can come back a different day.”