Lunch did not arrive quietly.
The cafeteria filled itself in layers, trays clattering against metal rails, chairs dragging across tile, voices stacking into a constant hum that broke into pockets of laughter and argument before folding back into the whole, the smell of fried food and something sweet hanging just low enough to feel like part of the air rather than separate from it.
Lines moved with practiced impatience, students navigating around each other without looking as if they had already mapped the room and everyone in it.
Adam sat at their usual table with Aiva, a tray in front of him he hadn't started on yet, watching her push something around her plate with the absent focus of someone mid-thought.
"You're doing the thing again," he said.
"What thing," she replied without looking up.
"The 'I'm about to complain but I'm deciding if it's worth the energy' thing."
She glanced at him, one eyebrow lifting. "I don't do a thing."
"You absolutely do a thing."
"I have range," she said. "This could be pre-complaint, post-complaint, or complaint-adjacent contemplation."
"It's pre," he said. "You haven't sighed yet."
She paused, then deliberately let out a long, exaggerated sigh.
"There," she said. "Now it's post."
He snorted. "That was fake."
"It was committed," she corrected.
"That doesn't make it real."
"It makes it effective."
He shook his head, finally picking up his fork. "What's the complaint."
She nudged her tray slightly. "They changed the pasta again."
"You say that every time there's pasta."
"Because they keep changing it," she said, looking personally offended. "There used to be a version of this that had flavor."
"Maybe your standards are too high for cafeteria pasta."
"My standards are exactly where they should be," she said. "The pasta is the one failing to meet them."
"But you're going to eat it anyway."
She looked down at it, then back up at him. "I am, but it doesn't mean i have to like it."
He laughed, the sound easy.
There it is.
"You're ridiculous," he said.
"You like me anyway."
"That's unrelated."
"It's deeply related," she said, and took a bite with the kind of resignation that turned into satisfaction halfway through. "Okay, that's actually not terrible."
"You hate consistency more than bad food," he said.
"I hate being wrong in advance," she corrected. "If I'm going to be wrong, I want it to surprise me."
He smiled, leaning back slightly in his chair.
For a moment, it was just that.
The noise, the table, the rhythm they had settled into without ever naming it, the ease of knowing exactly where the other person would land before they got there.
She looked at him again, more directly this time.
"You okay?"
The question landed clean.
He shrugged, looking down at his tray. "Yeah."
She didn't respond immediately.
"You're doing the thing," she said.
"What thing."
"The 'I'm about to say something but I'm deciding if I want to deal with the consequences of saying it' thing."
He glanced up. "That's not a thing."
"You just described my thing back to me five minutes ago."
"That was different."
"No, it wasn't," she said. "What's going on."
He hesitated, then exhaled through his nose.
"It's nothing," he said, which was already too much information for it to be nothing.
She tilted her head slightly. "Alright then. Tell me this... Nothing."
"It's just—" he stopped, trying to find a way to frame it that didn't immediately collapse into specifics. "There's this… situation."
Her expression shifted, interest sharpening. "A situation."
"It's not a situation," he said quickly. "It's just a— I don't know how to—"
"Come on, you're doing great," she said. "Keep going. I'm totally locked in."
He gave her a look. "I'm serious."
"So am I," she replied, completely unhelpful.
He ran a hand through his hair. "Well... There's someone, and it's not— it's not like that, or it is, I don't really know, but it's weird."
"Define weird."
"Well, she doesn't—" he paused again. "She doesn't do normal things."
"That narrows it down to half the school."
"She doesn't do people," he said. "Not really."
Aiva's mouth twitched.
"She talks," he added, which did not help.
"Occasionally," she said.
He stopped.
Wait.
He looked at her. "Are you—"
"Are you talking about Luna?" she asked.
He stared. "How did you—"
She laughed, soft and entirely unsurprised. "Adam."
"I didn't even say her name."
"You didn't have to," she said. "You just described her badly enough that it could only be her."
He groaned, dropping his head briefly. "Is it that obvious."
"To me, yes," she said. "We've been friends too long for you to suddenly develop a mysterious interest in 'someone who doesn't do people' and expect me not to connect that dot."
He leaned back again, exhaling. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"Nope," she agreed lightly. "You definetly don't."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome," she said, smiling.
He shook his head. "I've never— she's just— it's different."
Aiva followed his gaze as it drifted across the room.
"Speak of the devil," she said with a smirk.
Luna had just entered the cafeteria, tray in hand, moving through the space with a kind of quiet efficiency that made people shift out of her way without realizing they were doing it, her path direct toward an empty table near the far side of the room, just far enough from the main clusters that the distance felt intentional.
She sat alone.
Aiva glanced back at him.
"Well," she said.
He didn't look away from Luna. "Well what."
"Well there she is."
Nope.
His confidence evaporated with impressive speed.
"Okay, no," he said. "Absolutely not."
Aiva laughed. "You were just talking about her."
"I was talking about her in theory," he said.
"That—" He added gesturing in Luna's direction without drawing attention to it, "Is different."
"It's really not."
"Yes, it is," he insisted. "Theory doesn't involve walking across the cafeteria and sitting down at her table like I'm— like I'm—"
"Like you're someone who knows her," Aiva supplied.
"I don't know her that's the thing" he said. "Every time i think i know her or we know each other, shit just resets and i realize i never knew her at all. It's complicated."
"You do know her," she said. "Just not in the way you want yet."
He dragged a hand down his face. "This is a bad idea, Aiva."
"It's actually a very good idea," she said.
He looked at her. "How."
She leaned back slightly, eyes flicking between him and Luna.
"People like her," she said, tone shifting, still warm but more focused now, "they don't put walls up because they enjoy being alone."
He listened.
"They do it because they've learned that letting people in costs more than it gives back," she continued. "So they stop offering access unless there's a reason."
"So I need to give her a reason," he said.
"No, you idiot," Aiva said immediately. "That's exactly what you don't do."
He blinked. "Okay."
"You don't scale the wall," she said. "You don't make it a project. You just… exist near it."
He frowned slightly. "That sounds like nothing."
"It is nothing," she said. "That's the point."
He waited.
"When she does something real," Aiva added, "like actually talking to you, or letting you sit there, or not telling you to leave, you don't make it a moment."
"What do I do instead."
"You accept it," she said. "And then you keep going like it didn't just happen."
He considered that.
"Because the second you turn it into something," she went on, "she takes it back. Not because she wants to be difficult, but because you've made it into a thing she now has to manage."
"That's… specific," he said.
"It's accurate," she replied matter-of-factly.
He glanced at Luna again.
"And don't try to win her over in one go," Aiva added. "Consistency beats intensity. You show up. That's your job. She decides if she wants to meet you there."
I mean all this time... How much consistency does it this shit even take cause—
He let that sit for a second.
"So I just go over there," he said slowly, "and… do nothing."
"Exactly," she said, smiling. "You're so good at doing nothing."
"I'm terrible at doing nothing," he said.
"Then this is a growth opportunity."
He huffed out a laugh.
"Also," she added, a teasing note slipping back in, "stop trying to start things. Let her do it. Conversation, anything. You just… be there."
He looked at her.
"This feels strangely like a trap."
"It's not a trap," she said. "It's just not about you."
Ouch... but fair.
He took a breath.
"Go," she said, nudging his foot under the table. "Before you think about it long enough to talk yourself out of it."
"I am currently talking myself out of it."
"I can see that," she said. "Ignore it."
He stood.
"Okay," he said, which did not sound okay.
"Okay," she echoed, grinning.
He picked up his tray and started walking.
This is fine. This is normal. People walk across cafeterias all the time.
Each step felt slightly more noticeable than the last.
Do not overthink this. Sit down. Eat. Be a person. A normal person. You have done that before.
He reached the table.
Luna glanced up once as he approached, her gaze flicking over him with a quick assessment that registered his presence and categorized it without comment.
He sat down across from her.
She went back to eating.
Okay. Good. That's… good. She didn't tell me to leave. That's something, right? Don't react to that. We're not reacting to that. We are neutral. We are a neutral presence at a table.
He picked up his fork.
Eat. Eating is normal. People eat at lunch. This is a lunch setting. We are participating in lunch.
He took a bite.
Do not look at her. Looking at her is a choice. We are not making choices. We are existing.
She ate.
Existing is harder than i thought.
He shifted slightly in his chair, adjusting his posture in what he hoped read as casual and not as someone actively managing how casual he looked.
Stop adjusting. Adjusting is suspicious. Just sit. Just fucking sit still man.
She reached for her drink.
This is fine. This is completely fine. Silence is normal. Silence is a normal human interaction. Not every moment needs to be filled with conversation. We are comfortable with silence. We love silence.
"This is overcooked," Luna said.
He looked up before he could stop himself.
"The chicken," she clarified, cutting into it with unnecessary precision. "It's dry."
"Yeah," he said, the word coming out warmer than the moment required. "It's been like that all week."
She glanced at him briefly, something in her gaze registering the tone without commenting on it.
"They should stop serving it," she said.
"They probably won't," he replied.
"They should though," she repeated, which felt like the end of that thought.
He nodded, then realized nodding might be too much and immediately regretted the nod.
Was that too much. That felt like too much. That was probably fine. That was a normal amount of nodding.
She took another bite.
"So," he said, then immediately wanted to take it back.
She looked at him.
You started something. Why did you start something. You were explicitly told not to start things.
He committed.
"Are you planning on any training later?" he asked.
AAH FUCK. I've just fucked up big time, haven't I.
The question landed cleanly enough.
She considered it.
The pause was not long, but it was real, her attention shifting slightly as if running through something internal before returning to him.
"No," she said.
He waited.
"I know what you're implying. You can handle yourself," she added.
The words were flat, but they carried something underneath them that he didn't try to unpack.
"Okay, that's totally fine." he said.
She finished her drink, setting it down with a small, controlled movement.
Then she stood.
"See you around," she said, which was more than she needed to say.
"Sure thing," he replied.
She picked up her tray and left.
He sat there for a second, looking at the space she had just occupied.
That was… fine actually.
He let out a small breath, picking up his fork again.
That was actually more than fine.
He didn't try to explain why.
He just sat there, eating his lunch, the noise of the cafeteria folding back in around him, and let the feeling settle where it wanted to.