Page 199 of Ruin My Life
Birds chirp, traffic hums beneath the windows, and the apartment smells like strong, freshly brewed coffee—some from the basic carafe on the counter, the rest courtesy of Lee’s chem-lab monstrosity next to it.
Brie and I step into the kitchen to find everyone already awake—at varying levels of awake, but here, nonetheless.
Connor is at the stove making French toast, scrambled eggs, and maple bacon, looking like he got a full eight hours despite the fact none of us managed more than five.
Monroe, on the other hand, sits at the island with his arms crossed and a permanent grumble lodged in his chest. Chavez leans over the counter like he’s only upright out of sheer obligation.
Brie and I take our seats at the island as everyone mumbles groggy “good mornings.”
Lee, somehow disgustingly perky, turns to Brie. “Do you drink coffee?” he asks, already pulling out enough mugs for everyone.
I can’t help the snort that escapes me. It earns a few curious stares. And a glare from Brie that’s sharp enough to fillet me clean to the bone.
“Yeah, I’ll take a cup,” she says sweetly, ignoring my grin.
“If you’d like, I can make you one,” Lee offers, far too enthusiastic for this hour. “Have you ever triedKopi Luwak?”
And there it is.
Lee’s personal crusade—zero for four so far—is trying to convince any of us to ditch store-bought pre-ground for his exotic Indonesian beans.
Apparently, they were shit out by a cat or something. I stopped listening after he mentioned it cost forty dollarsper cup.
Brie blinks at the sleek bag in his hands, then at the pour-over setup on the counter. Her smile falters slightly.
“Oh, that’s okay,” she says. “Yours is already started. I’ll just have the regular one.”
“It’s no problem,” Lee insists. “I can make you this cup and start another for myself. It’ll only take ten minutes. The beans are actually fermented by an Asian palm civet and—”
“Please stop,” Chavez groans. “You cannot start talking about cat shit coffee before I’ve had my own.”
“Really, Lee, breakfast is almost ready,” Connor adds without looking up from the stove. “Don’t make the poor girl barf until she’s eaten something.”
Lee shoots them both a glare. “Just becauseyoufour drink garbage doesn’t mean everyone else has to.”
Then, back to Brie, earnest as ever. “So? Want to try it?”
Brie hesitates—clearly not wanting to shut him down outright. Lee’s soft energy makes you thinkfragile, but it’s not true fragility; he bruises easy but he’s not breakable.
“I think that’s a no-go for her, Lee,” I say, leaning forward, my grin sharp. “With the amount of milk and sugar she dumps in her coffee, you’d probably have an aneurysm watching her defile your precious beans.”
Monroe snorts behind his newspaper. “Remember when Dahlia asked for stevia in hers?”
We all laugh—real, throat-deep laughter that rattles the morning haze right off our shoulders. Brie’s eyes flick from face to face, a lightness dancing at the edges as she absorbs it all.
I tell her the full story: our night-shift nurse, sweet Dahlia, dumping an obscene spoonful of sweetener into Lee’s prized brew while he watched in horror—followed by him immediately pouring boiling water all over his own hand.
Brie winces. “Did she have to treat him?”
“She did,” I say, smirking. “With cool water, burn cream, and exactly zero sympathy.”
“Okay, eat up,” Connor orders, plating six full servings and sliding the carafe of non-civet coffee within reach.
Lee watches, horrified, as Brie dumps milk and sugar into her mug like she’s making hot cocoa instead of coffee. The vein in his temple looks one heartbeat away from popping.
“There’s barely anycoffeein that cup,” he groans.
Brie lifts her mug, locks eyes with him—deadpan.
