Chapter 8 Coffee And Complications
Coffee And Complications
~MABELINE~
I can barely open my eyes.
My body shuffles out of what I have affectionately started calling my closet space, moving on pure muscle memory and spite.
My alarm has been snoozed at least ten times.
Maybe eleven. Maybe fifteen. I genuinely lost count somewhere around the fifth desperate slap at my ancient phone screen, when Beatrice the Second gave me what felt like a judgmental buzz in response.
Early mornings are not my thing.
They have never been my thing.
They will never be my thing, not in this lifetime or any other.
And yet here I am, dragging myself into consciousness at an ungodly hour because some sadistic administrator at Valenridge Academy decided that eight AM classes are not only acceptable but necessary for proper academic development.
Why? What possible educational benefit is there to torturing students before the sun has even fully committed to being in the sky? What monster looked at a schedule and thought yes, let us make these young people suffer before they have had time to become human?
I shuffle toward the kitchen, my bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood floor with each reluctant step. The temperature is not helping my situation. The floor feels like ice against my skin, sending little shocks of discomfort up through my legs with every footfall.
My hair is a rat's nest of tangles and yesterday's stress.
I can feel it brushing against my shoulders in matted clumps that have achieved sentience overnight and are now staging a rebellion against all known laws of physics and haircare.
I probably look like a shapeshifter caught mid-transformation, stuck somewhere between human and swamp creature.
Cute. Very cute. Definitely the impression you want to make on your new roommates. Looking like a creature from the depths of a horror movie first thing in the morning.
But I do not care about impressions right now.
I do not care about anything right now except one singular, all-consuming need.
Coffee.
I need coffee like I need oxygen. Like I need my next heartbeat.
Like I need the universe to stop personally victimizing me for just one goddamn day.
Coffee is not a want at this point. It is a biological necessity.
A survival requirement. The difference between functioning as a member of society and collapsing into a heap on the floor.
I reach the kitchen counter and stop, staring at the empty space where a coffee machine should be.
Should be.
But is not.
Where is the coffee machine?
I blink at the counter, my sleep-deprived brain trying to process this information.
There is a toaster, silver and shiny and completely useless to me right now.
There is a microwave, digital display glowing with numbers that might as well be hieroglyphics.
There is a fancy blender that looks like it has never been used, still gleaming with factory-new promise.
But there is no small coffee maker with dregs of leftover espresso waiting for me to claim.
It is always there. At the community lounge at my old place. There are always scraps of coffee left for me to at least get a taste. Cold, usually. Sometimes burnt so badly it tastes like ash. But coffee nonetheless.
My roommates at the old place felt pity for the loner Omega who came from a supposedly well-off family and got discarded to figure out life on her own because she was a late bloomer.
Pity meant free espresso shots. Pity meant survival.
Pity meant someone would leave a few ounces at the bottom of the pot because they knew I needed it.
But here there is none.
Why?
What have I done to deserve this?
"Damn."
Rafe's voice cuts through my fog from somewhere behind me, sharp and mocking even at this early hour.
"Did our Omega roommate die overnight and turn into a zombie? Because she looks like she just crawled out of a grave. I have seen corpses with better posture."
There is a yawn from another direction before Cal responds, his voice thick with exhaustion and morning gravel.
"It is too fucking early to care about anything.
I hate waking up this early. Mornings should be illegal.
Like, actually against the law. Punishable by fines.
" A pause, followed by the sound of him shifting in his seat.
"Hey, MaeBells, can you like put only five snooze alarms and not ten?
That shit gave me a damn headache. I could hear it through the wall.
Every single beep felt like a drill going into my skull. "
I do not respond.
I cannot respond.
I am still staring at the empty counter, trying to comprehend where the mini coffee machine went.
Trying to figure out what I must have done to piss off the coffee gods so thoroughly that they would abandon me in my hour of greatest need.
Trying to compute how I am supposed to survive this day without caffeine.
This cannot be happening. This absolutely cannot be happening.
I cannot start my first real day at this school without coffee.
That is a recipe for disaster. That is a guarantee that everything will go wrong.
Every bad day in my recent memory has started without coffee. It is a pattern. It is science.
A hand waves in front of my face, cutting through my spiral.
I blink, slowly registering that someone is standing directly in front of me.
Pretty eyes. Storm-blue and framed by dark lashes that should be illegal at this hour.
Concerned expression creasing a forehead that looks unfairly attractive.
Messy curls falling across his face in that effortlessly disheveled way that would take me three hours and seventeen products to achieve.
"Mae? Are you sleepwalking or something? Because you have been staring at the counter for about three minutes straight without moving."
I do not answer at first.
My brain is struggling to identify this person through the fog of sleep deprivation. Who are they? Why are they so close? Why do they smell like evergreens and old books and safety? Why is my hindbrain purring instead of screaming?
I blink a few more times, forcing my eyes to focus, and he comes into full view.
Shirtless.
Very shirtless.
Extremely, devastatingly, problematically shirtless.
My gaze drops from his face to his chest without my permission, taking in the lean muscle definition that goalies apparently develop through years of explosive movements and split-second saves.
The way his shoulders are broader than they look under hoodies, cutting a surprisingly impressive silhouette.
The pale skin dotted with freckles that continue down from his face like a constellation map, like someone scattered stars across his collarbones just to torment me.
And the tattoos.
Oh.
Oh no.
There is one on his left pec, directly over his heart. Dark ink forming an intricate design I cannot quite make out in my current state of cognitive impairment, but the lines are beautiful. Artistic. The kind of work that someone put real thought and skill into.
More ink trails along his ribs, disappearing toward his back in patterns that suggest a larger piece I cannot fully see from this angle.
Celtic knots maybe, or abstract geometric shapes.
The black stands out starkly against his pale skin, drawing my eyes along the contours of his body in ways I should definitely not be allowing at seven forty-five in the morning.
When did he get tattoos? How did I not know about the tattoos? Why is no one warning innocent Omegas about the tattoos? This feels like information that should come with a disclaimer.
Why am I staring at his tattoos like a creep when I should be focusing on the coffee crisis? Get it together, Mae. Priorities.
His scent finally registers fully in my muddled brain, cutting through the confusion.
Evergreens. Old books. A hint of soap from a recent shower. Clean and warm and entirely too appealing.
Etienne.
Right. Etienne. My roommate. The one who asked me on a Valentine's Day date yesterday. The one who writes stories and looks at me like I matter. The one who is currently standing shirtless in the kitchen while I have a mental breakdown over missing coffee.
I look up, finally making eye contact.
"The mini coffee machine is gone."
He blinks, confusion flickering across his features.
"Mini coffee machine?"
Rafe groans dramatically from somewhere behind me, the sound radiating with theatrical suffering.
"Great. So she is delusional in the mornings. Fantastic. Just what we needed to add to the list of complications. A roommate who hallucinates kitchen appliances."
Cal snickers from his position at the kitchen table. "Maybe she needs coffee to actually wake up and form coherent sentences. Revolutionary concept. Perhaps we should look into this theory."
Etienne ignores them both, his attention still focused entirely on me with a patience that feels almost supernatural at this hour.
I rub at my eyes with the heels of my hands, trying to force my brain into some semblance of functioning.
"The mini coffee machine," I repeat, slower this time, trying to translate my thoughts into words that make sense.
"At my old place, the workers and other residents usually leave some in the communal coffee pot.
Leftover dregs from the night before. Cold, usually.
Sometimes burnt. Sometimes tasting like it was made three days ago and has been sitting there acquiring sentience.
But coffee. I would drink whatever was left so I could function like a human being. "
My shoulders sink as the reality of the situation settles over me like a wet blanket made of disappointment.
"But it is gone. There is no coffee machine here. There is no communal pot. There is nothing."
I can feel the despair building in my chest, pressing against my ribs.