“Whatever, Holli. I got to go.”
“Good luck, bro.”
I end the call knowing I’ll need all the luck I can get. She was wound tight as a spring-loaded chemical reaction waiting to ignite. And if uncapped? There’d be no gentle release. Just a fiery, uncontrolled burst of energy that would consume everything in its path, leaving burning embers and scorched earth in its wake.
Let the games begin, Rossi.
4
ISABELLA
The sharp tang of acetone and the faint sulfurous undertone of thiols hang in the air. I adjust the angle of the fume hood, ensuring the airflow properly shields my crystallization reaction. The hood's glass gleams under the bright fluorescent lights, casting subtle reflections on the beakers and flasks meticulously arranged in rows.
The first two days of school have been a whirlwind. A blur of students filing in and out, endless questions, and the meticulous repetition of setting classroom expectations and laboratory boundaries. By the time I finally left campus last night, the sun had disappeared, replaced by the yellow glow of streetlights.
Exhaustion weighed heavily on me as I trudged home. Instead of cooking, I ordered takeout and ate over my notes, determined to stay ahead.
Today has been no less chaotic. Labs, not lectures, dominate the schedule. Labs mean more time spent standing, preparing, cleaning up, and reminding aspiring chemists that our laboratory doesn’t come with a maid service. I’ve spent a fair portion of the day advising, “Keep your areas clean as you go. It’s easier than scrubbing dried resin off the countertops.”
It’s late afternoon, and the lab is blessedly quiet. My students have left for the day, leaving behind a collection of drying pipettes and hastily scribbled notes scattered across the workspace that must be disposed of.
For the last hour, I’ve been cleaning up and refining my work, trying to set my intentions for tomorrow, which, luckily, is office hours and a chance to work on administrative tasks.
The soft knock on the door pulls me out of my thoughts, jarring against the gentle hum of the fume hood. I glance toward the door, the faint outline of a figure through the frosted glass making my stomach tighten.
It opens before I can speak, and Diego Kahale steps inside. I sigh, forgetting how his absence made the class more manageable, only for him to reappear unscheduled today. His movements are deliberate but slow, as if testing the waters.
A helmet is tucked under his arm, the glossy black surface catching the overhead light. His presence feels invasive, almost suffocating in the quiet sanctity of the lab. A flicker of interest that he’s a fellow rider steals my attention for a snap second before I dismiss it.
He hesitates, standing just inside the doorway, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on me.
There’s no swagger this time.
No cocky grin or careless posture.
Instead, he looks unsure.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
I keep my voice even, though my chest tightens at the sight of him. My rules are clear. Office hours only, no exceptions. His disregard for them sends a ripple of irritation through me, but I can’t deny the undercurrent of something else.
Tension.
Unease.
Awareness.
He shifts. His grip on the helmet tightens before he sets it on the counter.
“I know, Professor. I just?—”
He stops. His gaze darts to the rows of meticulously arranged beakers before returning to me.
“I needed to apologize.”
The words hang in the air, unexpected and weighty. My fingers flex against the counter, and I resist the urge to cross my arms to put more distance between us.
“Apologize?” I echo, tilting my head slightly, unsure where this is going.
