Page 232 of Problematic

“One.”

Lux looked at me, looked at the scoop, and dumped three into the pitcher in rapid succession with the casual confidence of a man accustomed to rewriting laws.

I stared at him. “You know I watched you do that. That was three.”

“The scoop is too small.”

“The recipe says one.”

“The recipe is wrong.”

I took a breath through my nose. “Blend it.”

He shoved the pitcher onto the base and pressed the button.

Nothing happened. Frustration flashed across his face.

“You need the lid,” I said.

“I knew that.”

“Sure, you did.”

He placed the lid on top and pressed the button again. The blender roared and Lux flinched hard enough to make me grin.

The blender stopped. Lux poured the drink into a cup with careful concentration, added whipped cream, caramel drizzle, cookie crumbs, and enough menace to make the beverage feel guilty for existing.

He studied the finished drink.

“There,” he said. “I have mastered coffee.”

“That isn’t coffee.”

“I mastered whatever the fuck this is,” he said proudly. He slid the cup toward me. “Drink it.”

“I didn’t order it.”

“You forced me to create it. Drink it.”

“That’s training.”

“That’s psychological terrorism.”

A teenage girl entered with two friends, saw Lux behind the counter, and froze. Her eyes widened. His hand moved toward the name badge as though considering ripping it off.

The girl whispered, “Oh my gods.”

One friend raised her phone.

Lux’s shadows lifted.

I slapped his arm. “No terror.”

“They’re recording me.”

“You spent months recording me.”

His shadows dropped.