“It has the density of plutonium,” Tristan adds, still poking at it with a fork. The fork makes a distressing ‘tink’ sound against the pancake’s surface. “I think we could use it as a hockey puck.”
“I don’t understand,” Diego continues, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I know how to cook! I’m good at it! But thisthing—” he gestures at the stove, “—it’s not a stove. It’s an alien technology disguised as a kitchen appliance.”
“It’s the most efficient model on the market,” Rett says, looking deeply offended as he continues tapping at the screen. “Induction heating. Temperature precision to the degree. Smart capabilities.”
“It has a ‘sous-vide’ setting but not a ‘make a basic pancake without burning down the building’ setting,” Tristan points out, abandoning his poking to lean against the counter.
“I don’t know what this thing is!” Diego continues, gesturing at the stove. “There’s no flame. There’s a million buttons, and none of them are labeled ‘medium heat.’ My abuela could makea feast on a single hot plate.” He glares at Rett. “I can’t even make a pancake on your thousand-dollar smart stove.”
For the first time since The Scream (which is how I’m now mentally categorizing last night’s mortifying episode), a genuine, unexpected laugh escapes my throat. The sight of these four powerful men being defeated by a fancy appliance is so absurd, so...human. The tension in my chest loosens, just a little.
“Was that one... supposed to be for me?” I ask, pointing at the pancake.
Diego nods, looking so utterly dejected that I feel a pang of sympathy.
“I tried toast first. It was going to be a welcome breakfast,” he says softly. “To make you feel at home.”
Something warm and unfamiliar blooms in my chest at his words. They actually wanted to make me feel welcome. Even if they failed spectacularly.
“That’s... actually really sweet,” I admit. Then I look back at the smoking pan and can’t suppress another laugh. “Totally misguided, but sweet.”
The atmosphere in the kitchen shifts. My laughter seems to have broken some invisible barrier. Tristan’s dimple makes a reappearance as he grins. Diego’s shoulders relax slightly. Even Rett’s perpetual frown softens around the edges.
“Okay,” I say, taking charge because someone clearly needs to. I look around for a window to open and realize, with a jolt, that there aren’t any. The floor-to-ceiling glass is a seamless, solid wall. Of course.
“How do you get fresh air in this place?” I ask, waving a hand through the smoke.
Rett points to a sleek, minimalist touchscreen panel on the wall. “Air circulation system. The ‘Purge’ function will clear the air in about ninety seconds.”
I stare at the panel, then back at him. “Your apartment has a ‘Purge’ function?”
“It was for cigar smoke,” Tristan mutters defensively. “From a party. Once.”
I just shake my head, walk over to the panel, and press the button. A low, powerful hum fills the penthouse as the ventilation system kicks into high gear, pulling the smoke from the air with an almost unnerving efficiency.
“Rule number one of this... arrangement. No one touches the stove before I’ve had coffee.” I move toward the refrigerator. “Where do you keep the bagels?”
The four of them exchange glances.
“Bagels?” Tristan repeats, as if I’ve asked for moon rocks.
“Yes, bagels,” I say slowly. “Round bread with a hole in the middle? Often topped with cream cheese? The cornerstone of any decent breakfast?”
More blank stares.
With growing suspicion, I pull open the refrigerator door and peer inside. The fridge is immaculate, organized with a militant order that screams Rett Sterling. But it’s also... bizarre.
There are containers of pre-marinated steak and chicken breasts. A crisper drawer filled with nothing but kale and bell peppers. An entire shelf dedicated to different kinds of expensive bottled water. No milk. No juice. No butter.
I close the door with a soft thud and turn to face them, one eyebrow raised. “Okay. Where do you keep the actual food?”
“The... pantry?” Diego asks. He points to what I thought was just a section of the seamless, dark wood wall.
I walk over and find the hidden seam, pulling the door open. Inside, there’s a bag of flour (clearly used for the doomed pancake attempt), a nearly empty box of spaghetti, and rows upon rows of protein bars. It’s the pantry of four single men who either eat out or cook the same three functional meals on rotation.
I turn to face them, a look of profound disbelief on my face. “This isn’t a kitchen. It’s a survival bunker with better countertops.”
Diego has the grace to look embarrassed. “We have the basics.”
