Blood and Biochemistry

Chapter 4

Evangeline

I woke to the sound of something exploding.

Not metaphorically.

There was a sharp metallic bang from the kitchen, followed by a curse, a second crash, and Mason shouting, “Nobody panic.”

I stared at the ceiling.

The fairy lights above my bed were still glowing faintly in the gray morning light, one section blinking with an irregular rhythm that probably confirmed Adrian’s fire-hazard argument. Across the room, his bed was empty.

Of course it was.

The man slept with military precision, made his bed with military precision, and apparently woke with enough military precision to disappear before sunrise without making a sound.

Another crash echoed through the suite.

“I said nobody panic,” Mason called again.

Oliver’s voice followed, calm and unimpressed. “You’re the only one panicking.”

“I’m managing the situation.”

“You’re holding a burning towel.”

That got me moving.

I threw back my quilt, shoved my glasses onto my face, and stumbled toward the door. I had gone to bed wearing an oversized Ravenwood T-shirt and a pair of pink sleep shorts that barely qualified as clothing but had cost four dollars at a discount store and were comfortable enough to justify their lack of fabric.

The kitchen smelled like smoke, butter, and wounded pride.

Mason stood at the stove wielding a spatula in one hand and a scorched dish towel in the other. A pan sat crookedly across two burners, something black and unidentifiable fused to its surface. Oliver leaned against the counter with a mug of coffee, watching the disaster unfold with the detached interest of a scientist observing a doomed experiment.

Adrian stood near the sink.

He had already showered. His dark hair was still damp, pushed back from his forehead, and he wore black athletic pants and a fitted gray shirt that made it difficult not to notice the shape of his shoulders.

I noticed for approximately one second.

Then I saw the stove.

“What happened?”

Mason turned toward me with the relieved expression of a man spotting reinforcements. “Breakfast.”

Oliver looked into his mug. “That is an optimistic interpretation.”

“It was supposed to be French toast.”

I peered into the pan. “Was it?”

“It had potential.”

“It had bread,” Oliver said. “Briefly.”

Mason pointed the spatula at him. “You refused to help.”

“I advised you not to use the broiler.”

“I like a crisp finish.”

“You broiled eggs.”

“They were in the bread.”

“Not anymore.”

I stepped closer, trying to determine whether the fire alarm was about to start screaming. “Did you turn the burner off?”

Mason looked down.

The burner was still glowing red.

“Oh.”

Adrian reached past him and twisted the knob. His face remained completely expressionless, but there was something about the stillness of his jaw that suggested Mason was one poor decision away from being thrown through a window.

“You nearly set the kitchen on fire,” Adrian said.

“That feels dramatic.”

“The towel was burning.”

“It was smoldering.”

“It had a flame.”

“A small flame.”

“Fire is not measured by emotional impact.”

Oliver lifted his mug. “That sounded rehearsed.”

Adrian ignored him.

Mason dropped the ruined towel into the sink and ran water over it. “Fine. Breakfast is delayed.”

“Breakfast is dead,” Oliver said.

“I can make something,” I offered.

All three of them looked at me.

It happened so quickly and with such perfect synchronization that I glanced behind myself to make sure someone else hadn’t entered the room.

“What?”

Mason lowered the spatula. “You can cook?”

“Basic things.”

His eyes widened. “Like eggs?”

“Yes.”

“Edible eggs?”

“Usually.”

He placed both hands flat on the counter and leaned toward me. “Evie, I don’t want to put pressure on you, but you may be the most important person who has ever lived here.”

Adrian’s gaze moved from Mason to me. It dipped briefly, then returned to my face so quickly I almost missed it.

Oliver did not bother hiding his glance.

Mason noticed neither.

I looked down at myself.

Right.

The shorts.

I resisted the urge to tug the hem lower. There was no point. They had no lower to give.

“I wasn’t planning to host a brunch,” I said. “I have class.”

“What time?” Oliver asked.

I looked toward the microwave clock.

8:17.

My first chemistry lecture began at eight thirty.

For one suspended second, my brain refused to process the numbers.

Then every muscle in my body locked.

“Oh no.”

Mason blinked. “What?”

“I’m late.”

“You’re not late yet.”

“The science building is twelve minutes away.”

“You could run it in seven,” he offered.

“I could run it in five if I abandon dignity.”

“Dignity is overrated.”

I turned toward the bedroom, stopped, and spun back. “Coffee.”

Oliver silently held out the pot.

I crossed the kitchen, grabbed a mug from the cabinet, and poured without looking. Halfway through, I realized I had picked up one of the identical black mugs stacked in a perfect row.

“No.”

Adrian’s brow furrowed. “No?”

“I have my own.”

I abandoned the black mug on the counter and hurried back to the bedroom. My unopened box of kitchen things sat under the desk, still taped shut. I tore through it with my fingernails, muttering increasingly inventive curses until I found what I wanted.

The mug was hot pink.

Across the side, in bold black lettering, were the words:

MY BOOK BOYFRIEND CAN KICK YOUR ASS.

I carried it into the kitchen.

Silence fell.

Again.

Mason stared at the mug as if I had introduced a live peacock into the apartment.

Oliver slowly lowered the coffee pot.

Adrian looked at the cabinet full of plain black mugs, then at the one in my hand.

“No,” he said.

I set it on the counter. “No?”

“It cannot remain there.”

“Why?”

“It’s pink.”

“That is generally how colors work.”

“It does not match.”

“Match what?”

He gestured toward the cabinet. “Anything.”

I looked inside. Twelve identical matte-black mugs sat on two shelves with the handles facing the same direction.

“You arranged them by handle.”

“They’re easier to retrieve that way.”

“It looks like a funeral home.”

Mason snorted.

I placed my mug directly in the center of the bottom shelf.

It glowed like a flare against the black ceramic.

Mason pressed one hand to his chest. “She’s changed the entire energy of the room.”

Oliver adjusted his glasses. “It’s visually aggressive.”

“It’s a mug,” I said.

Adrian continued staring at it as though the object had personally insulted him.

I poured coffee, added too much sugar, and hurried back toward the bedroom.

“Your bread is still smoking,” I called over my shoulder.

Mason swore.

I changed in less than three minutes, trading my sleep clothes for jeans, a fitted green sweater, and the least-wrinkled jacket I owned. My curls had expanded overnight into a shape that defied both gravity and human intervention, so I dragged them into a loose knot and accepted defeat.

When I returned to the kitchen, the ruined French toast had disappeared, though the smell remained.

Mason stood beside the counter eating dry cereal directly from the box.

Oliver had moved to the table with his laptop.

Adrian was rinsing out the black mug I had abandoned.

“I can do that,” I said.

“You’re late.”

“I know.”

“You left coffee in it.”

“I know.”

“You also left the cabinet open.”

I grabbed my pink mug. “You’re very observant.”

“So I’ve been told.”

The words should have sounded smug. Somehow, from him, they sounded like a warning.

I shoved my notebook into my backpack and reached for the apartment door.

“Wait.” Mason crossed the room and held out a foil-wrapped rectangle. “Emergency breakfast.”

I took it cautiously. “What is it?”

“A granola bar.”

“You didn’t cook it, did you?”

Oliver made a choking sound into his coffee.

Mason looked wounded. “That was one incident.”

“There were flames.”

“There was character development.”

I tucked the granola bar into my bag. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Also, you look nice.”

“Mason,” Adrian said.

“What? She does.”

I felt heat rise into my face. “I look late.”

“You make late work for you.”

Oliver typed something without looking up. “That one was flirting.”

“Thank you,” Mason said. “I was worried I’d lost my touch.”

I opened the door.

Behind me, Adrian said, “Evangeline.”

I paused.

No one else called me that. Most people shortened my name the instant they heard it, grateful for something easier. Adrian seemed to make the full four syllables sound deliberate.

I looked back.

He stood near the counter with the damp black mug in one hand. His pale eyes moved over me once, taking in the half-zipped backpack, tangled hair, and coffee I was almost certainly about to spill.

“The east stairwell is faster,” he said. “It exits beside the library.”

I blinked. “Thank you.”

He nodded once.

I ran.