Page 2 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)
Chapter One
PRESENT DAY
I stare at the screen, my coffee growing cold in the Stanford University mug that's become a permanent fixture on my kitchen table alongside Kael's medical bills, my dissertation notes, an empty wine bottle I don't remember opening last night, and the perpetual stack of "final notice" envelopes that mock my attempts at financial stability.
The irony isn't lost on me that my PhD stipend for an entire year is less than what I made in three hours last night, explaining thermodynamics while slowly removing laboratory safety equipment for an audience of strangers who think "chemical bonds" is code for kinky role-play.
I frown briefly at the bottle of wine, at least I think I explained thermodynamics.
Welcome to my life as The Hidden Chemist—Stanford's most notorious doctoral candidate by day, anonymous adult performer by night, and full-time guardian to a five-year-old who thinks his mommy works "really important science jobs" that somehow require her to be awake when normal people are sleeping.
He's not wrong, technically. Although I doubt my dissertation committee would appreciate the innovative ways I've been applying my knowledge of molecular chemistry to fund his experimental neuroblastoma treatments.
The kitchen door creaks, and I slam my laptop shut with the reflexes of someone who's mastered the art of compartmentalizing her life into neat, non-overlapping segments.
Kael appears in the doorway, his Batman pajamas hanging loose on his too-thin frame, dark circles under his eyes that no five-year-old should have but that have become as familiar to me as his gap-toothed grin.
"Mommy, you're awake early," he says, his baby voice carrying that precise diction that makes his teachers at Stanford's Bing Nursery School simultaneously amazed and concerned.
Even at five, he articulates thoughts with the careful consideration of someone much older, a side effect of spending more time around medical professionals and graduate students than other children.
"Did you complete your late-night research project, after story time?
Your laptop was emitting that blue light spectrum again. "
If only he knew. "Yeah, buddy. Finished late, so I figured I'd get an early start on breakfast. Want pancakes?"
His face lights up with the kind of pure joy that simultaneously breaks my heart and reminds me why I'd do anything—literally anything—to keep that light burning. "With chocolate chips arranged according to size distribution? And the syrup dispensed from the graduated cylinder vessel?"
"Obviously. What kind of amateur chemist do you think you're dealing with here?" I ruffle his dark hair, still amazed by how his brain works. Most five-year-olds ask for ‘chocolate chip pancakes.’ Mine requests them with statistical analysis and proper laboratory terminology.
As I mix pancake batter and listen to Kael articulating his graduation presentation strategy for ‘demonstrating why molecular structures exhibit superior complexity compared to prehistoric reptilian biology,’ I briefly close my eyes and fall in love with him all over again, it’s impossible not to.
His vocabulary would be impressive for a middle schooler, let alone a kindergartener, but that's what happens when your primary social interaction involves hospital waiting rooms and graduate-level conversations.
That thought makes my eyes pop open, drifting briefly to the closed laptop on the table and the weight of the waiting deposit notification hits me again.
Forty-seven thousand dollars. Enough to cover his next round of experimental immunotherapy with money left over for groceries that aren't ramen noodles and hope.
The thing is, I'm good at what I do—both things.
My Hidden Chemist streams have gained a cult following among viewers who appreciate the unique combination of legitimate scientific education and slowly escalating sensuality.
Turns out there's a surprisingly robust market for intellectually stimulating erotica, especially when it's delivered by someone who can explain the neurochemical mechanisms of arousal while demonstrating practical applications.
But here's what my audience doesn't know: their mysterious, confident chemistry professor is actually a twenty-two-year-old virgin who approaches sexuality like a research problem to be solved through careful study and hypothesis testing.
I can explain the physiological processes of human sexual response in excruciating academic detail, but I've never actually experienced most of what I describe with another person present.
It's not shame or religious hangups or any of the usual reasons people cite for sexual inexperience. It's math. Pure, brutal, unforgiving mathematics.
Time equals money equals Kael's survival.
Every hour I spend on dating, relationships, or personal exploration is an hour I'm not earning money for his treatments, not studying for my comprehensives, not researching better therapeutic options.
Romance is a luxury for people who don't wake up every morning calculating whether they can afford both groceries and prescription copays, people who haven't become "Mommy" to a brilliant five-year-old who deserves the world but got me instead.
Plus, there's the small matter of trust. Five years of being solely responsible for another human being's survival tends to make you cautious about letting anyone close enough to hurt you. Or him. Especially him.
"Mommy?" Kael's voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. "The pancakes are making angry bubbles."
Shit. I flip the pancakes, salvaging breakfast while my mind continues its familiar loop of financial anxiety mixed with exhausted gratitude.
This is my life: constantly toggling between graduate-level biochemistry, explicit adult content, and domestic responsibilities, all while maintaining the facade that I have any idea what I'm doing.
My phone buzzes with a text from Rachyl:
Coffee date later? I have gossip and you look like you need human interaction that doesn't involve lab equipment or exceptionally gifted small children.
My mind drifts back to the last conversation we had, during our Audible and Chill night, and I hesitate briefly to text back.
LAST GIRLS NIGHT
"You think too much like a scientist," Rachyl declares, pointing at me with slightly impaired coordination. "It's romance, Sabina. You're supposed to suspend disbelief, enjoy the fictional hotness, and move on with your life."
I take another swig of wine and consider this.
"You can blame it on my analytical mind, or you can blame it on the fact that I've spent the last five years learning that real life doesn't follow romance novel logic.
Real life is messier, more complicated, and significantly less likely to involve convenient billionaires with perfect abs and emotional availability. "
"But that's exactly why fiction exists!" Rachyl insists. "To give us a break from real life's bullshit. To let us imagine worlds where the hot guy actually communicates his feelings instead of just grunting mysteriously in the corner."
"If you want better communication, maybe don't start with books where the primary male dialogue consists of growling and possessive declarations."
"You're impossible."
"I'm realistic. There's a difference."
Rachyl studies me for a moment, her expression shifting from tipsy amusement to something more serious.
"You know what your actual problem is? You've gotten so good at analyzing everything that you've forgotten how to just..
. feel things. When's the last time you did something purely because it felt good, not because it served some practical purpose? "
The question hits closer to home than I'd like to admit. When was the last time I did something just for pleasure, just for me, without calculating the cost-benefit analysis first?
"I feel things," I protest, but even as I say it, I know it sounds defensive.
"Scientific breakthroughs don’t count Sabina. I'm talking about genuine, selfish, impractical pleasure. The kind that serves no purpose except making you happy."
I stare into my wine bottle, avoiding her gaze. "Happiness is a luxury I can't afford right now, Rach. Some of us have actual responsibilities."
"And there it is," she says softly. "The wall comes up the second things get real."
Before I can respond—before I can deflect with more sarcasm or scientific analysis—my laptop chimes with a notification.
"Saved by the bell," I mutter, grateful for the interruption.
Taking the coward’s way out, I grab my computer and stand, "I have to answer this message.”
"This conversation isn't over," Rachyl warns, but she's already gathering her things. "We're going to talk about your emotional avoidance patterns."
"Looking forward to it," I lie, already mentally shifting into work mode.
Because that's what I do—I compartmentalize, analyze, and survive. Romance novels might promise happy endings, but real life requires more practical solutions.
Even if sometimes, late at night, I wonder what it might feel like to be the kind of person who believes in fairy tales.
PRESENT
I type back:
Can't today. Too much work.
Three dots appear immediately, then:
Bullshit. You ignored my messages last night and I know you read them. You're avoiding me because you don't want to talk about your mysterious "side work" that suddenly has you able to afford organic groceries. I'm not judging, babe. I'm worried.
I sigh, my phone buzzing again:
I’ve given you space. But that time has now passed. I will see your ass for coffee after your last class. I have your schedule. Because it’s MY schedule. Xoxo.
Fuck.
Fine, let’s meet after lunch.
I put my phone back in my pocket.