"Nothing." I take a sip of my coffee, hiding my smile behind the mug. "Just thinking."
He doesn't press, just returns to his chocolate with the methodical precision he applies to everything. Breaking each piece into exactly equal halves. Pausing between bites. Even in indulgence, he maintains control.
I wonder if I'll be able to help him bring some of those icy walls down. Not all at once—that would probably send him into a full panic, and I'm not trying to break him. Just... soften him. Slowly, gently, one brick at a time.
I wonder if he'll ever trust me enough to let me try.
I wonder if any of this—the dates, the conversations, the moments of unexpected vulnerability—will matter when Valentine's Day comes and our arrangement officially ends.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the stars are beginning to emerge over Oakridge Hollow. The town sparkles below us, peaceful and small. The mountains stand sentinel in the distance.
And here, in Julian's pristine penthouse with its cold perfection and hidden warmth, I find myself hoping for something I haven't let myself hope for in a very long time.
Maybe I can help him. Maybe I can reach the person hiding behind all that control and fear and carefully constructed distance. At least... just for me. If he trusts me enough.
CHAPTER 24
Pizza, Games, And Pack Chaos
~ROSEMARIE~
"Ihave everything under control."
Famous last words. The kind of words that belong on tombstones and cautionary tales. The kind of words that precede absolute chaos.
Julian stands at Tank's stove with the confidence of a man who has never actually used a stove in his life—which, to be fair, he probably hasn't. He's wearing one of Tank's aprons—plain black, far too large on his leaner frame, the ties wrapped twice around his waist—and wielding a spatula like it's a weapon he doesn't quite know how to operate. The kitchen smells like expensive olive oil, fresh herbs that look suspiciously like they came from a store rather than any actual cooking preparation, and the faint undertone of impending disaster.
This is going to end badly. I can feel it in my bones. The universe is sending me signals and all of them say "evacuate the premises immediately."
Tank's kitchen is warm and homey—nothing like Julian's sterile penthouse setup. The counters are worn wood, thecabinets are painted a cheerful sage green, and there are hand-painted mugs on hooks that Tank probably bought at a local craft fair. Sasha's water bowl sits by the back door, and the whole space smells faintly of cedar and woodsmoke even before Julian started... whatever this is.
"Are you sure you don't want help?" I offer from my spot at the kitchen island, where I've been relegated to "observer" status after Julian insisted—insisted loudly and repeatedly—that he could handle dinner himself. This was supposed to be a non-date group night to build pack dynamics, and Julian decided the best way to contribute was to cook. Tank is sprawled on the living room couch with Sasha draped across his lap, pretending to watch TV but actually watching Julian with barely concealed amusement. Elias is setting up board games on the coffee table, humming something off-key.
"I don't need help," Julian snaps, adjusting the heat on the burner with aggressive precision. "I've watched enough cooking videos. This is simply a matter of following precise instructions. I follow instructions professionally. This should be no different."
“Julian,” Tank says without looking up from whatever nature documentary he's pretending to watch, "you've never cooked anything more complicated than instant ramen. And you somehow made the ramen crunchy."
"That's not true. I made toast last week."
"You burned the toast last week," Elias corrects cheerfully, looking up from the Monopoly board. "I saw the evidence in the trash can. It was basically charcoal. I thought you were trying to make fire starters."
Julian's jaw tightens visibly. "The toaster was defective."
Sure it was. Just like this stove is probably about to be "defective" in approximately three minutes. I should probably locate the fire extinguisher now, as a precaution.
The kitchen fills with the sizzle of something hitting hot oil—too hot, judging by the aggressive spitting sounds—and Julian leans back to avoid getting splattered. He's attempting some kind of pan-seared chicken situation, though the chicken in question looks more like it's being assaulted than cooked.
"Is it supposed to smoke like that?" I ask, watching gray wisps curl up from the pan.
"It's fine," Julian insists. "Smoke is normal. It means it's cooking."
"Does it, though?" Tank muses from the couch.
The smoke increases. The chicken makes a sound that can only be described as a death rattle. Julian adjusts the heat again—up instead of down, because apparently he's committed to this particular path of destruction.
And then the pan catches fire.
Not a small fire, either. A legitimate, flames-reaching-toward-the-ceiling, smoke-detector-screaming kind of fire. The kitchen goes from "slightly concerning" to "definitely an emergency" in approximately two seconds.
