(Max’s POV)
"You’re staring at me."
I blinked, caught. "I’m not staring."
"You’ve been staring at me eat for the last two minutes." Lucian didn’t even look up. "It’s weird."
"I’m just wondering how someone eats that fast and still manages to look annoyed about it."
"I’m always annoyed. It’s not related to the food."
"Comforting."
He set his fork down, finally, and looked at me properly, not the flat, cataloging look he usually gave me, something closer to actual scrutiny. "Why are you still here."
"I told you. Loitering."
"You said that an hour ago."
"I’m very committed to a bit."
The corner of his mouth did that thing again the almost-smile that never quite finished arriving, and he pushed his empty plate toward the sink without getting up to actually put it there. "Go to bed, Max."
"You go to bed."
"I live here. I can stay in my own kitchen as long as I want."
"So can I. Technically. Since I also live here."
"Barely."
"Rude." But I was already sliding off the stool, stretching out a yawn I hadn’t realized was building until it hit. "Fine. I’m going."
"Finally."
"You’re welcome, by the way."
"For what."
"The company. You clearly loved it." I was already halfway to the stairs, carrying my plate and I caught, just barely, the sound of him huffing something that wasn’t quite a laugh behind me.
I went up first. He followed a few minutes later, and through the thin wall between our rooms I heard him moving around, the creak of his mattress, and then, muffled, clearly not meant to carry, but the wall had never been thick enough for anything to stay private, his voice, low and irritated, talking to no one.
"Is he always this talkative."
I grinned into my pillow like an idiot and didn’t answer, because he hadn’t actually been asking me.
I fell asleep smiling. It didn’t last.
My alarm went off at six fifteen, and by six thirty I was showered, dressed, and standing at the bottom of the stairs with two backpacks and no Lucian.
I knocked on his door. Nothing.
I knocked again, harder. "Lucian. We’re going to be late."
Still nothing. I checked my phone, six forty already, and pushed the door open when a third knock got me nowhere.
He was still asleep, sprawled face-down across the bed like the alarm clock on his nightstand had given up trying.
"Lucian." I crossed the room and shook his shoulder. "Hey. We have class."
He groaned into the pillow, one eye cracking open just enough to glare at me sideways. "Go away."
"We have class in thirty minutes."
"I’m not going anywhere today." His voice was rough with sleep, muffled by the pillow. "Hockey’s tonight. Not now. Let me sleep."
"You have Trade Law at seven."
"I know what I have." He rolled onto his back, finally, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I’m not going."
"You’re going to miss the case review."
"I don’t care about the case review."
"You’ll fail the midterm if you skip—"
"Max." He sat up sharp enough that I took an instinctive step back, and whatever softness had crept into the kitchen the night before was gone entirely, replaced by something colder, harder. "It is none of your business whether I attend a lecture or not. Get out of my room."
"I’m just trying to help."
"I didn’t ask for help." His voice had an edge to it now, sharp enough to cut. "You don’t get to walk in here and start managing my life because we had one halfway decent conversation over leftovers. That’s not what this is."
"I’m your brother." I swallowed, forcing the words out more quietly. "I’m worried about you. That’s all."
Something flickered across his face not softness, nothing close to it, just a long, silent second where he simply looked at me, jaw tight, eyes unreadable, like he was deciding whether that sentence deserved an answer at all.
He didn’t give me one.
He just exhaled hard through his nose, threw the blanket back, and got up, brushing past me toward the bathroom without another word. The door shut harder than it needed to.
I stood there in his room for a second longer than made sense, feeling the sting of it settle somewhere under my ribs, and then I made myself leave, made myself go downstairs, made myself put the kettle on instead of standing there replaying his face.
I made two cups of coffee. I didn’t know why I made the second one. I made it anyway.
He came down twenty minutes later, hair still damp, dressed, moving with the same brisk, unbothered efficiency as always, like the last conversation hadn’t happened at all. He walked straight past me toward the door.
I caught up and held the second cup out toward him. "Here."
He looked at it. Looked at me. For a second I thought he’d just keep walking, and my stomach dropped in anticipation of it, but he took it, wordless, fingers brushing mine for half a second in the handoff.
"I’m sorry," I said, quiet, before he could get the door open. "I just didn’t want you to skip class over hockey. That’s all it was."
He didn’t answer that either. He just took a sip of the coffee, grimaced slightly like it was too hot, and pushed through the door toward the car without waiting for me.
I followed. I always seemed to end up following.
The drive to school was silent, but it wasn’t the old silence, this one had weight to it, something unresolved sitting heavy in the space between us, and I spent most of it staring out the window instead of trying to fill it with anything.
He didn’t drop me at a separate building today. We walked in together, and when Trade Law started ten minutes later, he took the seat next to mine without a word, sprawled back, arms crossed, looking every bit like someone who’d rather be anywhere else.
He didn’t take notes. He didn’t seem to be listening at all, actually, his attention drifting toward the window, toward his phone half-hidden under the desk, toward anywhere except the professor working through case precedent at the front of the room.
"Can anyone tell me why the WTO ruled against the subsidy in this case?" the professor asked, scanning the room.
I raised my hand before I’d fully decided to. "Because the subsidy was contingent on export performance. That makes it a prohibited subsidy under Article 3 — it doesn’t matter if the actual harm was minimal, the structure itself violates the agreement."
"Exactly right." The professor nodded, moving on to the next point.
I felt Lucian’s eyes on me before I even turned my head.
He wasn’t looking at his phone anymore. He was watching me, really watching, the same unreadable intensity he brought to the ice, except aimed somewhere I didn’t fully know what to do with.
"What?" I whispered, when the professor turned back to the board.
"Nothing." He looked away first, jaw tightening slightly, gaze dropping back down toward his desk. "Pay attention to the lecture."
"You’re the one not taking notes."
"I don’t need notes."
"You clearly weren’t even listening."
"I was listening." A beat. Quieter. "To you, apparently."
I didn’t have anything to say to that. I just sat there, pen frozen over my notebook, heart doing something complicated and stupid in my chest, while he went back to staring at the window like the last ten seconds hadn’t happened at all.