Noah Bennett woke with the taste of blood in his mouth.

Again.

He lay still beneath his twisted comforter, staring at the gray light leaking around the blinds. Somewhere beyond the residence hall, Boston traffic hissed over wet pavement. His jaw ached. His right thigh throbbed as if he had walked into a table in the dark, which was possible, though he could not remember doing it.

He touched his tongue to the inside of his cheek and found the torn place near his back molar.

"Perfect," he muttered.

The clock read 7:12. His seminar started at nine, which left enough time to complain dramatically, shower, and buy coffee strong enough to undo whatever had happened to him overnight.

Noah crossed the suite in plaid sleep pants and one sock. The bathroom door stood open. He leaned over the sink, turned on his phone flashlight, and pulled at his cheek.

The injury was small but angry, a bright red crescent against pale tissue.

"Don't touch it."

Noah jerked so hard his hip struck the counter.

Adrian Kovacs stood in the doorway.

He had returned from morning training in a black quarter-zip and running tights, rain darkening the shoulders of his shirt. At twenty-three, Adrian was captain of Westbridge University's heavyweight rowing team and looked offensively qualified for the role. He was six foot three, broad through the shoulders, narrow at the waist, and built with the practical strength of someone who spent two hours before breakfast forcing a boat through freezing water.

His dark brown hair was wet and pushed back from a severe, handsome face. His mother was Croatian, his father Hungarian American, and he had inherited sharp cheekbones from one side, a stubborn jaw from the other, and gray-green eyes that suggested both families had survived by distrusting strangers.

Noah lowered the phone. "You walk like a serial killer."

"You have poor situational awareness."

"That is exactly what a serial killer would say."

Adrian moved past him and opened the mirrored cabinet. He smelled of rain, cold air, and the cedar soap he bought in severe gray packaging. From the top shelf he removed a bottle of oral antiseptic spray.

Noah eyed it. "Why do you own that?"

"You bought it last month."

"Why do you know where I put it?"

"You put everything in the wrong place."

"It's my shelf."

"Open your mouth."

Adrian's voice changed when he gave orders. It did not become louder. It simply lost any hint that refusal might be relevant. His teammates obeyed it on the river. Noah, who had never willingly obeyed anyone in his life, opened his mouth.

"Traitor," he told himself indistinctly.

Adrian braced two fingers beneath Noah's chin, careful and cool. He sprayed the cut once. Peppermint flooded Noah's mouth, followed by a sharp sting that made his eyes water.

"Don't swallow yet," Adrian said.

Noah glared at him.

Adrian's mouth almost curved. Almost. "You'll survive."

Noah waited, painfully aware of the hand beneath his chin. Adrian touched him often in useful ways: guiding him around an icy patch, correcting his grip when he helped carry groceries, pressing a palm to his forehead when he had the flu. Every touch was brief. Every touch lingered in Noah's memory longer than it should.

Adrian stepped back. "Again on the same side."

"It's the milk."

Stillness passed over Adrian's face.

"Milk does not selectively injure the inside of your cheek."

"Every time you make it, I wake up damaged." Noah counted on his fingers. "Sore mouth. Bruised leg. Backache. One time my shoulder hurt for two days."

"You sleep like you're fighting for your life."

"I slept very well before you started your weird dairy ritual."

Eight weeks earlier, Noah had made the mistake of admitting that stress kept him awake. He had expected Adrian to recommend exercise or discipline, his solutions to most human problems. Instead, three nights later, Adrian had appeared beside Noah's desk carrying a mug of warm milk with honey and cinnamon.

Every third night after that, another mug appeared.

Adrian heated it to exactly the right temperature. He never used too much cinnamon. He pretended not to watch until Noah finished.

The milk worked. Noah slept without waking, sometimes for nine straight hours. The unexplained injuries came with it.

"Then stop drinking it," Adrian said.

The answer came too quickly.

Noah folded his arms. "That's all?"

"What response would satisfy you?"

"Maybe an explanation for why you look guilty."

Adrian's eyes hardened. "I don't."

"You do. Your left eyebrow gets tense."

"Eyebrows do not get tense."

"Yours does."

Adrian replaced the spray. When he turned away, the tips of his ears were faintly red.

Noah had lived with him for four months. He knew three things could produce that reaction: praise, direct questions about his feelings, and Noah walking out of the shower without a shirt.

Interesting.

Before Noah could press him, their suite mate Marcus stumbled into the hall wearing boxer shorts and a Red Sox cap.

"Are you two flirting in the bathroom again?" Marcus asked.

"No," Adrian said.

"Obviously," Noah said at the same time.

Marcus looked from one to the other. "Right. My mistake. This is a normal medical examination between two aggressively heterosexual roommates."

Adrian left without answering.

Noah watched him go.

He was not aggressively heterosexual. He was bisexual, although he had dated more women than men and had never mentioned either fact to Adrian. Adrian's sexuality remained an unsolved campus mystery. Women asked him out. Men did too. He refused everyone with the same cold courtesy.

Marcus leaned against the doorframe. "What did you do?"

"Why assume I did something?"

"Kovacs uses complete sentences with you. That means either devotion or homicide."

"He makes me milk."

"Devotion, then."

Noah rolled his eyes, but the word followed him through the morning.

At lunch, Adrian sat with the rowing team across the dining hall. He did not look at Noah once. This would have been more convincing if he had not sent a message reminding Noah to avoid spicy food until his cheek healed.

Noah typed, You care about my mouth a suspicious amount.

Three dots appeared, vanished, and appeared again.

Adrian finally replied, Someone has to.

Noah read the sentence twice.

That night he lay awake studying the fading bruise on his thigh. The milk could not have caused it. Adrian was right about that much. Yet Adrian knew something, and he had chosen not to say it.

Noah opened the calendar on his phone.

The next milk night was Thursday.

He created an event for 10:00 p.m.

DON'T DRINK IT.

Then he added a second reminder beneath it.

FIND OUT WHAT ADRIAN DOES AFTER.