Chapter 2

By Wednesday morning, I had decided I was being ridiculous.

Lots of men had low voices. Lots of men said good night. Lucas Vale was not secretly the anonymous boy who spent half his weekends carrying my disastrous Skyforge Siege team through ranked matches and calling me sweetheart when he thought I needed it.

Lucas barely spoke before coffee. Northstar could talk me into staying online until three.

They could not be the same person.

"You missed the bus," Lucas said as I came out of the bathroom with one shoe on, my backpack half-zipped, and toothpaste still on the corner of my mouth.

"I did not."

He looked at his phone. "It left six minutes ago."

"Oh."

I reached for my second shoe. Lucas picked up his keys.

"You don't have to drive me."

"I know."

That was Lucas. Kindness, delivered in the tone of a reluctant favor.

His Jeep smelled like cedar, rain, and expensive soap. I sat too straight in the passenger seat and kept my backpack on my lap, as if taking up less space might make it less obvious that I didn't belong in a car with leather seats.

"Put that in the back," he said.

"It's fine."

"Ethan."

My name in his voice made my fingers loosen. I put the bag behind me.

The university rose ahead through morning fog: old brick, climbing ivy, wide windows glowing with the confidence of a place built for people who never had to calculate the price of lunch. Hawthorne had given me a scholarship. It had not given me money for my mother's clinic bills, textbooks, rent after the dorms closed, or the train fare home every time she said she was “doing okay.”

So I worked the library desk three nights a week. I edited captions for the media lab. I knew which dining-hall employees would let me refill a coffee cup with soup without making me explain.

Lucas knew none of that.

"Presentation today?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"You'll be good."

"You've never seen me present."

"I've heard you on voice chat."

"That isn't the same thing."

"It's worse."

I turned toward him. "Wow."

The corner of his mouth moved. "You talk too fast when you're nervous. Slow down before the first slide."

For a second, I forgot how to answer.

At the media building, I grabbed the door handle and looked back. "Thanks."

"Don't miss the bus tonight."

"No promises."

At lunch, Northstar texted me.

Northstar:

Check your email.

The message waiting there was a campus-bookstore card worth enough to buy the audio-editing textbook I had been avoiding for three weeks.

My throat tightened.

Marigold:

You didn't have to.

Northstar:

I know.

Marigold:

It costs too much.

Northstar:

Then buy the book and stop looking at the price.

Marigold:

You make that sound easy.

Northstar:

It is easy when it's you.

I read that sentence until the letters stopped looking like letters.

Then my mother's name appeared in a new notification.

Mom:

Appointment went okay. Don't worry. Love you.

I knew “okay” meant there would be another bill. It meant she had made her voice cheerful because she did not want me to hear how tired she was.

Across the cafeteria, Lucas stood with two architecture students. One of them was laughing loudly. Lucas wasn't laughing, exactly, but he looked less guarded than he ever did in our room.

Then he caught me watching.

I looked down so fast I almost tipped my drink.

That evening, I got back to Cedar Hall after ten. Derek was stretched across the common-room couch, watching a finance video with the volume too high. Miles was losing a racing game and swearing at his controller. Lucas stood at the kitchen counter making coffee.

"Coffee at ten?" I asked.

"Model review tomorrow."

"That explains the murder face."

"I always look like this."

"I know."

The words came out quieter than I intended.

Lucas looked at me. Not his usual quick glance. A real look.

I escaped into our room.

Northstar invited me to queue an hour later. I had barely connected when he said, "You sound sad."

"I don't."

"You do."

"Maybe I'm tired."

"Did someone hurt you?"

The question was gentle enough to make my chest ache. I almost told him about my mom. About the gift card. About how humiliating it was to be grateful and afraid at the same time.

Instead, I said, "No."

"I don't need every answer," he said. "But don't lie because you think it makes you easier to handle."

We sat in the game lobby without queuing. Our avatars stood shoulder to shoulder beneath a digital moon.

"What are you wearing?" he asked at last.

"Seriously?"

"Answer me."

"Gray sweatpants. A T-shirt."

"The one with the torn collar?"

"Maybe."

"I'd like that shirt."

"You've never seen it."

His breath caught.

"I'd like it," he corrected.

The bedroom door opened behind me. Lucas stepped in holding two cups of coffee.

"For you," he said.

I took one. Our fingers brushed.

Northstar said warmly in my ear, "Good boy."

Lucas's eyes dropped to my face.

Color rose slowly beneath his skin.

He put his own coffee down without drinking it and left again.

I held the cup with both hands, suddenly certain that being ridiculous might be the least dangerous thing I was doing.

Lucas did not come back until after midnight. I was pretending to edit a class project when he crossed the room, put a granola bar beside my keyboard, and said, "You skipped dinner."

"I ate."

"Coffee isn't dinner."

"You don't know what I ate."

"I know you get quiet when you haven't."

The sentence landed too close to something Northstar had said.

I looked up. Lucas was already turning away.

"Thanks," I managed.

He nodded once, then paused at his desk. "Your presentation sounded good through the door."

"You listened?"

"I heard it."

"That's not the same thing."

"No," he said, not looking back. "It isn't."

I watched him work until my screen went dark.