Page 3 of Rhythm and Rapture

If that makes me hard, calculating, emotionally unavailable—at least Kael is alive. At least I kept my promise to Maria, even if I couldn't keep her alive to see it.

The fortress we're building—my grandparents' foresight, Maria's final gift through her life insurance, Kade's fierce loyalty, and my own steel backbone—will have to be enough. Because this tiny boy deserves more than just survival.

He deserves to thrive.

And I'll bleed myself dry to make sure he does.

Chapter One

PRESENT DAY

The notification chimefrom my laptop makes my stomach clench with the same Pavlovian dread I get when Kael's oncologist calls. Except this time, it's not bad news—it's a deposit notification for $47,000. Forty-seven thousand fucking dollars. For one night's work.

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 myattempts 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 IthinkI 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 researchproject, 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 asurprisingly 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, anddomestic 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."

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