Page 87 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

He’s standing at the stove in low-slung sweatpants and nothing else, his back to me, and he’s making crêpes with the kind of surgical precision usually reserved for bomb disposal or brain surgery. Each one is a perfect circle. I can see them stacked on a plate beside him, uniform in size and color. Each flip is executed at the exact right moment, the crêpe arcing through the air and landing with a soft pat.

There’s a measuring cup on the counter with measurements marked to the milliliter. A notebook beside it with what appears to be a recipe written in handwriting so neat it looks printed. And a small digital scale that he’s using to measure… flour? Is he weighing his flour?

“You’re measuring crêpe batter to the milliliter,” I say.

He doesn’t turn around. “Consistency is key.”

“They’re crêpes. Not a chemistry experiment.”

“Chemistry is what makes them delicate.” He flips another perfect circle. “Did you know the ratio of milk to flour determines how thin they run? Too much and they tear, too little and they come out heavy. There’s an optimal range…”

“I absolutely do not need to know the optimal range.”

“…somewhere near one part flour to one and a half parts milk, depending on…”

“Orion.”

“…the altitude and humidity, which is why I keep a notebook of adjustments for different weather conditions…”

“Orion.”

He finally turns, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in that almost-smile I’ve learned to recognize. “You’re not interested in crêpe science?”

“I’m interested in eating crêpes. The science is your problem.”

“The science is why the crêpes are good.”

“The crêpes are good because you’re a control freak who can’t let anything be imperfect.” I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “That’s not science. That’s pathology.”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks pleased that I’ve diagnosed him correctly. “But it’s pathology that produces excellent breakfast food.”

“Do you have a notebook for eggs, too?”

“Eggs are more straightforward. Temperature and timing are the primary variables.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“There may be a section in the back.”

I laugh, I can’t help it, and the sound seems to startle us both. It’s been two days since I laughed. Two days since anything felt light enough to laugh about.

He’s watching me now with that expression I’ve started to recognize, the one that means he’s cataloging something, filing it away in whatever mental system he uses to organize the world.

“There’s coffee,” he says, nodding toward the machine on the counter. “I wasn’t sure how you take it, so I made it strong. But there’s cream in the fridge, and sugar in the cabinet above the…”

“Cream. Lots of cream. An amount of cream that you would probably find personally offensive.”

“I don’t judge coffee preferences.”

“You judge everything.”

“That’s fair.” He turns back to the stove, flipping another perfect crêpe. “I also alphabetized your creamer options.”

“My creamer options?”

“I bought several. I didn’t know which you’d prefer.”

I open the fridge. There are five different types of creamer arranged in alphabetical order: French vanilla, hazelnut, original, seasonal pumpkin spice, and sweet cream.