Chapter 5 #2
He nodded toward my data. “Those your baseline cultures?”
I nodded, grateful for the subject change. “The growth rate is fascinating. Look at how quickly the resistant strain is outcompeting the control.”
“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” He seemed genuinely curious rather than mocking.
“More than most things,” I admitted. “Bacteria are predictable. They follow rules. Unlike people.”
“I’m Brian, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.
“Kate,” I replied, shaking it. “And thank you for not being offended that I couldn’t remember your name.”
“No problem.”
We chatted casually for a bit.
When I returned to the apartment that evening, my shoulders were heavy with the weight of trying to prove myself worthy of a fellowship I’d already earned. The smell of garlic and herbs greeted me as I opened the door, instantly making my neglected stomach growl in response.
Stone stood in the kitchen, measuring ingredients. A digital scale sat beside cutting boards organized by food group: proteins, vegetables, starches. He was adding exactly two tablespoons of olive oil to a pan.
I watched, fascinated, as he methodically prepared what appeared to be grilled chicken with vegetables and quinoa. Each movement was efficient, each ingredient measured and added in a specific order.
“Are you going to stand there staring, or did you need something?” He didn’t look up from his precise dicing of red peppers.
“Sorry,” I said automatically. “I just didn’t expect you to be so...”
“So what?” Now he did look up, his blue eyes challenging.
“Meticulous about cooking,” I finished. “It’s like watching scientific meal preparation.”
Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. “Nutrition isn’t something to guess at. Precise macronutrient balance is essential for optimal recovery.”
“That makes sense.” I nodded, genuinely interested. “Your body is essentially your career instrument.”
He considered this analogy, then gave a short nod. “How was the lab?”
“You’re asking about my day?”
“Making conversation,” he said, turning back to his meal prep. “Isn’t that what normal people do?”
“Right. Normal. That thing I’m so good at.” I set my bag down and perched on a barstool. “It was...challenging. I was late, which didn’t exactly impress Dr. Barnes. She’s already skeptical about my research methods.”
Stone added the peppers to his pan. “So, a typical Monday.”
I laughed despite myself. “For me? Pretty much.”
He worked in silence for a few minutes while I watched. There was something strangely attractive about a man so disciplined in his actions.
“There’s enough for two,” he said suddenly, not looking at me. “If you’re hungry.”
The unexpected offer surprised me. “Are you sure? I don’t want to disrupt your nutrition plan.”
“It’s just food, Lab Bunny.” He glanced at me, that almost-smile playing at his lips again. “Besides, you look like you haven’t eaten all day.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’re staring at vegetables like they’re made of gold.”
I smiled appreciatively as he served two plates.
“So,” I ventured between bites of perfectly prepared chicken, “what exactly happened to your knee?”
His expression closed immediately. “Hockey injury.”
“That’s...not very specific.”
“ACL tear. Grade three.” He took a deliberate bite. “Not career-ending unless I rush recovery.”
“But you want to rush it,” I guessed, recognizing the frustration in his tone.
He looked up, surprised. “The team needs me.”
“And you need a fully functional knee for the rest of your life,” I countered. “Trust me, I’ve read enough medical journals to know rushing ACL recovery is asking for permanent damage.”
He set down his fork, his jaw tightening. “Game 6 of the conference finals. Third period, tie game. I went to block a shot, collided with Thompson from Dallas, and my knee twisted the wrong way.” His voice grew distant. “I heard the pop before I felt it. Knew immediately it was bad.”
“That sounds awful,” I said quietly.
“Surgery was three months ago. Team doctor says eight months minimum before I can play again.” The frustration in his voice was palpable. “That’s nearly a full season.”
“But at least you’ll be able to play again,” I offered. “That’s something, right?”
“You’re the expert on ACL recovery now?”
“Hardly. I’m just saying some things can’t be forced, no matter how disciplined you are.”
Later that night, alone in my temporary room, I pulled out my phone. The day’s awkwardness and tension melted away as I texted my mystery friend.
Ever have one of those days where you feel like you’re speaking a different language than everyone around you?
The response came quickly:
Mr. Wrong Number
Every damn day. What happened, Desert Survivor?
I smiled, curling onto my side.
Let’s just say I managed to alienate approximately sixty per cent of the people I met today. New personal best.
Mr. Wrong Number
That bad?
I’d say I should just stick to my work instead of trying to make friends, but even that has its challenges.. But hey, I made it through. How was your day, Mr. Wrong Number?
Mr. Wrong Number
Frustrating. People expecting the impossible. The usual.
Want to talk about it?
There was a longer pause before his reply:
Mr. Wrong Number
Not really. But talking to you makes it better somehow.
A warm flutter moved through my chest at his words.
That night as I drifted toward sleep, I found myself wondering what Mr. Wrong Number looked like, what his voice sounded like—and why talking to him felt so much easier than navigating the tension-filled conversations with the brooding hockey player just down the hall.
The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed early, determined to make a better second impression at the lab.
When I padded into the kitchen, Stone was already there, dressed in athletic wear, his gym bag packed beside him. He was gulping down a protein shake with single-minded focus.
“Morning,” I said, keeping my voice deliberately quiet, remembering his rule about pre-coffee talking.
He nodded in acknowledgment, then glanced at his watch. “Running late. PT session got moved up.”
“Oh, don’t let me keep you.” I moved to the coffee maker, trying to stay out of his way.
He grabbed his gym bag and headed for the door, then paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Hey, we should probably exchange numbers.”
I looked up, surprised. “Really?”
“In case something important comes up.” He shrugged, trying to seem casual. “Building maintenance, emergencies, whatever.”
“Right, that makes sense.” I reached for my phone on the counter.
Stone pulled out his phone and began to input the digits. “You want to call me so you’ll have mine saved too?”
“Sure.” I nodded, feeling strangely formal about this simple exchange with a man I was temporarily living with.
Stone was staring at his phone, his expression shifting from casual to shocked in an instant. His eyes widened, and the color drained from his face.
“What is it?” I asked, confused by his reaction. “Is something wrong?”
He looked up at me, his ice-blue eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief and something else I couldn’t quite identify.