"FUCK!" Julian jumps back, still holding the spatula like it's going to protect him from the inferno he's created.
Elias is already moving, abandoning the board games with the practiced efficiency of someone who deals with fires professionally. He grabs the fire extinguisher from under the sink—because apparently Tank's house comes equipped for exactly this kind of situation—and has the flames doused within seconds. White foam covers the stovetop, the pan, and a significant portion of Julian's apron.
The smoke detector continues to scream.
Sasha howls in response, apparently deciding this is a sing-along moment.
Tank sighs and goes to open windows.
Julian stands frozen amid the chaos, foam dripping from his designer watch, staring at the ruins of his cooking attempt with an expression of utter betrayal.
Well. That escalated quickly.
I'm still processing the absurdity of it all when sirens sound in the distance. At first I think I'm imagining it, but no—they're getting closer. Much closer.
"Did someone call...?" I start.
"Automatic alarm system," Tank explains, waving a hand to clear smoke from his face. "Connects directly to the fire department when the detector goes off for more than thirty seconds."
Elias groans. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
A fire truck pulls up outside—lights flashing, siren wailing—and within moments, three firefighters are piling through Tank's front door in full gear, ready to battle an inferno.
What they find instead is Julian covered in fire extinguisher foam, a destroyed pan, and their Fire Chief standing in the middle of the chaos wearing a t-shirt that says "World's Okayest Firefighter."
"Chief?" One of them—a younger guy with freckles—looks between Elias and the smoking kitchen. "Everything okay here?"
"False alarm, Martinez," Elias says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Culinary incident."
"Culinary incident," another firefighter repeats, clearly delighted. "Is that what we're calling it?" He spots Julian and his foam-covered apron. "Sir, did you try to cook?"
Julian's glare could melt steel. "I had everything under control."
"The fire extinguisher suggests otherwise," the third firefighter observes, trying and failing to hide his grin.
Tank leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "In his defense, he did have everything to perfection. Except the damnoven degrees. He had it in Fahrenheit when he thought it was Celsius. Or whatever measurement system he was using."
"I was using thecorrectmeasurement?—"
"You had the burner on maximum heat for twenty minutes," I point out gently. "The recipe probably didn't call for that."
Julian opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. His ears are red. His dignity is in shambles. The firefighters are barely containing their laughter.
"We'll just... do a quick check and head out," Martinez says, clearly trying to be professional despite the absurdity. "Standard protocol."
They do a cursory inspection of the kitchen, confirm there's no actual danger, and prepare to leave. But not before one of them claps Elias on the shoulder and says, "Hey Chief, maybe stick to ordering takeout next time your pack wants dinner."
"I'm going to remember this on your next performance review, Thompson," Elias warns, but there's no heat in it.
We thank them as they leave, the sound of their laughter echoing even as the truck pulls away. Julian is still standing in the middle of the kitchen like a statue of wounded pride, foam dripping slowly from his designer watch onto Tank's hardwood floor.
Poor Julian. He really did try. Points for effort, if not execution. Maybe next time we'll stick to things that don't involve open flames or heat sources of any kind.
"Okay," I say, breaking the awkward silence that's settled over the kitchen like a blanket. "Why don't we do a pizza night instead?"
The relief in the room is palpable—I can practically hear the collective exhale. Tank immediately pulls out his phone to find a delivery menu, already scrolling through options. Elias starts cleaning up the fire extinguisher foam with practiced efficiency, wielding a mop like he's done this before. Julian—stubborn, stubborn, impossible Julian—huffs and mutters something about how pizza was "always the backup plan" and "perfectly acceptable for a casual evening" before retreating to the bathroom to wash the foam off his hands and dignity.
The next hour is surprisingly peaceful. Pizza arrives—four different varieties, because apparently three Alphas can't agree on toppings and need backup options for their backup options. Pepperoni for Tank, because he's a traditionalist. Something with artichokes and sun-dried tomatoes for Julian, because he has to be difficult. Hawaiian for Elias, which sparks a heated debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. And a simple cheese for me, because sometimes simple is perfect.
