I'm sitting on the kitchen floor with William's treatment receipts when my phone buzzes against the tile.
Unknown number. I almost let it go, but something makes me pick up anyway.
"Mia? It's Luke… Luke Matthews." A pause. "Olivia gave me your number, hope that's okay."
His voice is warm and a little nervous around the edges, and it hits me somewhere behind my sternum like hearing a song I forgot I knew.
I'd been staring at Olivia's sticky note on the fridge for two days, working up the nerve to dial. Hearing him get there first loosens something in my chest that I didn't realize was clenched.
"Luke." I'm smiling at the kitchen floor like an idiot. "Yeah. Yeah, it's okay."
"Good! We should meet up." There's a smile in his voice, I can hear it clearly. "I'd rather catch up in person than over the phone."
"Luke, I don't know if…"
"Rosie's. Two o'clock today." A pause. "You remember Rosie's?"
Of course I remember the diner near campus with the cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted like it was brewed during the Cold War. "I remember Rosie's."
"Good. I'll be the large man in a booth looking nervous."
I hang up and sit there for a minute with the receipts in my lap, my thumb still warm from the phone screen, before finally getting ready and taking the bus across town.
Rosie's hasn't changed. Same cracked sign, same bell over the door, same smell of burned coffee and pancake batter that probably predates me.
He's already in a booth when I walk in, and for a second I just stand in the doorway processing the difference because… holy shit.
The Luke I remember was lanky. All elbows and knees, the kind of tall that hadn't figured out what to do with itself yet. This Luke fills the booth. His Ashcats jacket is draped over the seat beside him and his shoulders could block a hallway.
He spots me and stands up so fast he bumps the table, and then he's moving toward me—this wall of muscle in a thermal henley that fits him perfectly—and suddenly he's hugging me.
Solid. Warm. His arms wrap around me completely, and I have to tilt my head back just to breathe. He smells like clean laundry and something else—cologne maybe, or just him—and his chin rests on top of my head for one beat longer than casual.
"You got smaller," he says into my hair.
"You got ridiculous." I pull back and have to look way up. When did he get this tall? "What are they feeding you?"
"Protein shakes and existential dread." He grins—same grin, exact same one—and my chest does something complicated. "Mostly protein shakes."
We slide into the booth and he's still too big for it, his knees bumping mine under the table. He doesn't move them. Neither do I. It's easy immediately, the way it always was with Luke — no performance, no posturing.
Just two people who remember each other from before the world got heavy.
"So," Luke says once she's gone. "How've you been?"
It's such a monumentally insufficient question for the decade we're trying to bridge that I almost laugh. "Where do I even start?"
"Wherever you want." He leans back, one arm draped along the back of the booth, and the position makes his shirt pull tight across his chest. I notice. I'm not dead. "We've got time."
So I told him. The short version at first—William's condition, the meds, the hospital visits, the surgery we're racing against a clock to afford and my struggles. He listens without doing the sympathy face I've learned to hate. Just nods, asks questions that show he's actually paying attention.
"Enough about my disaster," I say. "How's the big leagues?"
His face lights up and he launches into a story about his first week with the Ashcats—how he showed up to practice with his jersey on backwards and the veteran players made him run every drill like that for the full session.
He does all the voices and I'm laughing so hard my coffee threatens to come out my nose.
"I burned water last week," he says, dead serious.
"That's not physically possible."
"And yet…" The laughter fades into something quieter.
"You're a professional athlete who can't boil water."
"In my defense, I was very distracted."
"By what?"
His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. "Things."
Something warm unfurls in my stomach before we drift backward without meaning to. High school, freshmen year of college, the parties we survived, the finals we crammed for. Kyle Brennan's legendary keggers. Olivia's catastrophic attempt at homecoming hair that made her look like she'd fought a curling iron and lost.
"I think about those days more than I should," Luke says, turning his mug in a slow circle. "Before everything got… complicated."
The weight of what he's not saying settles between us.
Before my father died. Before my mother. Before Ron. Before I became this version of myself — the one taking the bus to a diner against old Mia who she used to drive to in her dad's expensive car.
"Yeah," I say. "Me too."
"So what happened?" He turns his mug between his hands. "After you left college. Olivia told me pieces but never the whole thing."
My fingers lace through the handle. The ceramic is warm and I focus on that.
"Dad's company wasn't what everyone thought." The words come out flat. "After the accident, the debts surfaced — loans, leveraged deals, all stacked on my mother's name.."
"How bad?"
"Bad enough that selling the company barely covered what was owed." I take a sip. The coffee's gone lukewarm but I drink it anyway. "No inheritance. No trust fund. My tuition wasn't a scholarship and when the money vanished, so did my seat."
"And your Mom?" His voice is careful. Like he already knows.
"Couldn't survive it. Lost her husband, the house, watched it all dissolve." His fingers stop turning the mug. When the waitress approached us again Luke waves her off without looking. "I found her."
Luke doesn't say he's sorry. He reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine — palm down, warm, steady. I don't pull away. His thumb moves across my knuckles. Slowly and soothing, making my breath catch slightly, and we just sat like that for a moment.
Then he leans forward, elbows on the table, and his expression shifts into something serious. "How can I help?"
The question lands between us like a grenade. "Luke…"
"I mean it." His hand tightens on mine. "What do you need? Money for the surgery? A place to stay? A lawyer to go after Ron for child support?" His eyes are intense, searching my face. "Just tell me what you need and I'll make it happen."
My throat closes. Because of course he would. Of course my old friend Luke would sit here in this shitty diner and offer to fix my entire life without hesitation.
Like it's that simple. Like I'm worth saving.
The old Mia would've said yes. Would've let him help. Would've taken whatever he was offering with both hands.
This version of me? She's learned that accepting help always comes with strings. That nothing is free. "I don't need charity, Luke."
"It's not—"
"Olivia mentioned you said something about a job." I pull my hand back, wrap both around my mug, creating distance. "At the team’s facility, that's what I need. Just... information about the job."
Something flickers across his face. Disappointment maybe, or hurt. But he recovers fast, leaning back, giving me space.
"Yeah." He clears his throat. "Yeah, of course. My friend Gary told me he’s struggling with hiring janitorial staff, so…" He watches my face as he says it. "I can talk to Gary. Pretty sure you could start tomorrow if you want."
He leans forward again, and suddenly we're close enough that I can see the dark flecks in his eyes.
I should say thank you. Should acknowledge what he's doing—putting his reputation on the line for me, calling in favors, trying to help without making it feel like charity.
I look at him — really look. There's something in his face beyond friendship, something careful and patient sitting right behind his eyes like it's been there for years. My throat tightens around words I'm not ready to say.
"Okay," I say, nodding. "Tomorrow."
His face breaks into a grin—genuine, relieved, something else underneath I'm not ready to name.
"Good." He signals for the check. "I'll text you the details."
Cheryl drops the check on the table and Luke grabs it before I can even reach for my wallet. "Luke…"
"Don't." He's already pulling out his card. "Let me get this. Please."
It's such a small thing. A cup of coffee and whatever pancakes he ordered that he barely touched because he was too busy talking to me.
But it feels bigger than that.
________________