Page 9 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter six

Evan

I wiped the kitchen counter for the third time, watching the cloth leave streaks that weren't there thirty seconds ago.

The kettle hummed on the stove, building toward a whistle. Color-coded and rolled into perfect cylinders, my socks sat in the laundry basket like tiny soldiers awaiting deployment. Everything in its place. Everything under control.

Except for the fact that I'd been awake since 4:47 a.m., mentally replaying the moment Jake Riley's thumb had brushed against my cheek.

I touched the spot where the cut was healing. Barely a scratch now, but my skin still remembered the pressure of his hand. He'd looked at me—seeing something that held his attention.

That was the problem.

I opened my laptop and created a new spreadsheet: "Home Operations v2." The cursor blinked at me. I added tabs: Noise Limits. Shared Zones. Refrigerator Etiquette: Revisited.

If I couldn't control my reaction to Jake Riley's hands, I could at least control the fridge.

The kettle shrieked. I poured water over my tea bag—English Breakfast, steeped for precisely four minutes—and tried to focus on the familiar ritual. Steam rose from the mug, perfuming the area with a rich scent that usually grounded me.

Not this morning. I continued to think about how Jake had said my name during practice. Quietly. Testing the sound of it.

I typed furiously into the spreadsheet: Personal items must be clearly labeled with owner, date, and intended consumption timeline.

The bathroom mirror had no surprises: bed hair tamed into submission, gray eyes that gave nothing away, and a thin red line across my cheekbone that might fade by tomorrow.

I touched it again.

"Get it together, Carter," I muttered to my reflection. Talking to myself. A little of Jake was starting to rub off.

Back in the kitchen, I added another line to the spreadsheet: Shared cooking equipment must be returned to designated storage areas immediately after use.

The cursor blinked.

I'd written policies for every possible household disruption except the one that mattered: what to do when your chaotic roommate looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

There wasn't a spreadsheet formula for that.

The apartment was too quiet. No off-key humming from the shower, and no cabinet doors slamming as Jake searched for whatever random item had captured his attention. He was still sleeping, not dropping things.

I saved the spreadsheet and closed the laptop.

Two hours later, Jake, the barely functional human being, shuffled into the kitchen with hair sticking up in six different directions and wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants.

He was humming. It wasn't a song. It was a shampoo commercial jingle I remembered from childhood, complete with the enthusiastic " So clean, so fresh, so you! " tagline.

I stared at my laptop screen and tried to focus on updating the Noise Limits tab.

"Morning, Roomie Supreme," Jake pulled out the milk carton and shook it. He grabbed one of my ceramic mixing bowls from the drying rack—the blue one with the hairline crack—and poured cereal into it.

Don't look at his collarbones. Don't notice how the morning light cuts across his shoulders or how he moves through the kitchen like he owns every square inch of space.

I couldn't follow my own advice.

Jake had built his body into a lean muscle mass, all clean lines and understated strength. A small scar ran along his ribs—probably from taking a puck to the side during some long-forgotten game. His sweatpants hung low enough that I saw the sharp cut of his hip bones, and—

"Evan? You okay, buddy? You look like you might be having a stroke."

I snapped my attention back to the laptop. "I'm fine. Working."

"At nine in the morning? On a Sunday?" Jake leaned against the counter, bowl balanced precariously in one hand while he gestured with a spoon full of Rice Krispies. "That's either admirably dedicated or sad."

"It's called productivity."

"It's called you need a hobby that doesn't involve color-coding."

I typed aggressively into the spreadsheet: Kitchen conversation should be limited to essential communications.

"Where's the cinnamon?" Jake asked, opening three different cabinet doors in rapid succession.

"Spice rack. Alphabetized."

"Of course it is." Another cabinet door slammed. "Are we out of oat milk, or is this some kind of elaborate prank where you've hidden it behind the baking soda?"

"We're not out of oat milk."

"Then where—oh. Found it. Hidden behind the baking soda." Jake pulled out the carton and grinned at me. "You're a puzzle, Spreadsheet. A very organized, slightly passive-aggressive puzzle."

I added another line: Refrigerator organization follows logical proximity patterns, not random placement preferences.

Jake continued to ramble, something about how the puffed rice tasted better when it was slightly stale. He leaned back against the counter and gestured too enthusiastically with his free hand.

The bowl slipped.

It hit the tile floor with a sharp crack, and milk, ceramic chips, and rice cereal suddenly scattered across half the kitchen.

Jake stared down at the mess, spoon still in his hand.

"Shit."

My entire body tensed. Every muscle locked up.

"That bowl was vintage."

My words were flat, controlled. It was a tone that meant I was three seconds away from losing my shit entirely.

Jake looked up from the wreckage, milk dripping off his bare foot. "It was chipped already! You hate chips!"

"That doesn't mean I want it turned into ceramic shrapnel."

"It's not like I threw it at the wall, Evan. Gravity happens. Physics. You know, that thing where objects fall when you don't hold onto them properly?"

I stood up, chair scraping against the floor. "Maybe if you weren't flailing around like—"

"Like what? Like a human being who uses his hands when he talks?" Jake grabbed a dish towel and started dabbing at the milk spreading across the tiles. "Sorry, I don't communicate exclusively through spreadsheet formulas and passive-aggressive labeling."

"My labeling system prevents this kind of chaos."

"Your labeling system is micro-controlling my breakfast cereal."

I stared at him. "Micro-controlling your—that's not even a real phrase."

"Neither is intended consumption timeline, but that didn't stop you from putting it on a Post-it note.

" Jake straightened up, towel in hand, eyes bright with manic energy that meant he was just getting started.

"Face it, Spreadsheet. You want to organize me into a neat little column where I can't disrupt your perfect kitchen ecosystem. "

Heat crawled up my neck. "You're a menace with an expiration date."

"That's poetic. You rehearse that while labeling your Tupperware?"

"Column F: Insults to deploy during chaotic events."

Jake's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Of course, there's a fucking column for it. What's Column G? Things Jake does that make Evan… fuck, I don't even know what they make you do."

The kitchen walls started to close in. Jake stood three feet away, shirtless and defiant, milk still dripping from his toes, and I wanted to shake him and kiss him and lock him out of the apartment all at the same time.

"You know what?" Jake threw the dish towel onto the counter. "You want control so bad? Control this."

He gestured broadly at the mess—ceramic shards, scattered Rice Krispies, and a puddle of milk. Then, he grabbed a hoodie from the back of the chair where he'd draped it the night before and headed for the door. He yanked on his sneakers.

"Jake—"

"I'm going for a walk. Try not to alphabetize my absence while I'm gone."

He left milky footprints as the door slammed hard enough to rattle the picture frames in the hallway.

The apartment was suddenly silent again, while I stared at the milk gathering in the grout between the tiles.

I swept up the ceramic shards first, each piece clicking against the dustpan.

The rice cereal was more difficult—it had scattered under the refrigerator and stuck to the baseboards where the milk had splashed.

I found myself on my hands and knees, wiping down every surface twice, three times, until the kitchen showed no signs of the disaster.

Except for the empty space on the drying rack where the blue bowl used to sit.

I dumped everything into the trash, pressing down harder than necessary to make room. My hands shook—probably adrenaline or the caffeine from my tea. I washed them under water hot enough to leave red marks on my knuckles.

The pantry door swung open with its familiar creak. Jake's Rice Krispies sat on the middle shelf, half-empty box tilted against a container of oats. He'd left the top open again, which would make them stale by tomorrow.

I reached for the box, intending to close it properly, and caught myself staring at the cartoon characters on the front. Jake had been eating the cereal every morning since he moved in.

I pulled out the flour, brown sugar, and vanilla extract.

I retrieved the butter from the fridge and executed the familiar motions—measuring flour and cracking eggs with sharp taps against the counter edge.

The electric mixer's whir filled the silence Jake had left behind, and I focused on the sound instead of the echo of his voice: Micro-controlling my breakfast cereal.

Had I been doing that? Managing him instead of living with him?

I folded cornflakes into my batter, listening to them crackle against the wooden spoon. It sounded similar to the cereal he'd been eating when everything went sideways. The same cereal probably still stuck to the bottom of his feet.

The first batch went into the oven, and I set the twelve-minute timer. Soon, a cloud of warm vanilla and brown sugar scents filled the kitchen, comforting and calming to my nerves, usually.

Instead, I kept replaying the fight. It wasn't only Jake's words, but how he'd looked when he said them.

You want to organize me into a neat little column where I can't disrupt your perfect kitchen ecosystem.

The timer chimed. I pulled out the cookies—golden brown with dark chocolate chips and cornflakes visible on the surface—and set them on the cooling rack. Perfect. Symmetrical. Everything a cookie should be.

I made a second batch. Then a third.

The apartment was too quiet—no off-key singing from the shower.

I sat at the kitchen island with a warm cookie and stared at the empty stool where Jake usually perched, one leg tucked under him, talking with his hands while milk dripped from his spoon.

A quiet apartment was safer. It was also lonelier.

I opened my laptop and pulled up my practice schedule, updating notes from yesterday's scrimmage with mechanical precision. I kept glancing at the door.

At the bottom of the Home Operations spreadsheet, I added one final line:

Fridge Drama: 1 broken bowl, 0 resolved tension. Action item: TBD.

I closed the laptop and picked up another cookie, still warm from the oven.

Outside, October wind rattled the windows, and somewhere in Thunder Bay, Jake Riley was walking through the cold without a proper coat because I'd made him feel like he couldn't exist in his own space without breaking something.

I didn't want him to come back angry, but I wanted him to come back.