Sharon is definitely laughing now. She's got her hand over her mouth, but I can see her shoulders shaking.
"Alright, what did you do?" I ask Pine, looking at the rice situation that has somehow gotten worse instead of better. There's rice on his shirt now. On his pants. Possibly in his hair. He looks like he's been in some kind of rice explosion.
"I may have overestimated how much water was needed," Pine says slowly. "I thought maybe the rice needed a lot of water to properly hydrate and expand."
"You put the rice in a pot and then filled it like it was a bathtub," I say, peering into the pot of what is essentially just rice-flavored water. "Pine, this is literally just water right now. This isn't rice. This isn't even risotto. This is rice soup."
"Maybe that's what we wanted," Pine suggests, his expression totally serious. "Rice soup for dinner."
"Are you kidding me?" I say, moving to rescue the situation by draining the rice into a colander. "We're making regular rice."
The next hour is basically a series of small disasters punctuated by Sharon's increasingly hysterical laughter. Cassian tries to help with the vegetables because he's feeling left out, and he manages to cut his finger within thirty seconds because he's not paying attention.
"Don't touch that, it's hot," he says, pulling his bleeding finger back and sucking on it. "Actually, that was me. My own stupid mistake."
Pine successfully rescues the rice soup situation by draining the water, which means the entire sink gets filled with steamingrice and water and looks like a disaster zone. He stands there staring at it for a long moment like he's not entirely sure how to process what he's created.
I'm handling the chicken, which is actually going okay. At least one of us knows what we're doing. I'm seasoning it properly, roasting it at the right temperature, monitoring the internal temperature with a meat thermometer.
But here's the thing about three alpha males trying to cook together while also being protective over an omega: we keep getting distracted trying to make sure Sharon doesn't hurt herself or get too close to the heat or accidentally inhale steam or do literally anything that might result in injury.
"Don't touch that, it's hot," Cassian says every thirty seconds like he's become a broken record, his hand hovering over Sharon's like she's about to do something dangerous just by existing in the kitchen.
She tries to get up from the kitchen stool. Well—sheattemptsit. It’s more of an accidental slide that almost sends her wine glass flying. She catches it at the last second and gives us this triumphant little grin like that proves she’s coordinated.
Great. Fantastic. She’s definitely had way too much in the time it’s taken us to destroy dinner.
She wobbles toward the oven with the determination of someone who absolutely should not be near anything hotter than room temperature.
Pine steps in front of her, arm out like he’s guarding a crime scene. “Hold up.”
She blinks at him. “What now?”
“We’re keeping you away from the dangerous stuff,” he says, completely serious.
Sharon raises an eyebrow. “The oven is dangerous?”
“It’s hot,” Pine replies. “And sharp things exist in its vicinity.”
Cassian nods like Pine just delivered a peer-reviewed scientific theory.
Sharon looks between them, fighting a smile. “So you’re protecting me from… cooking? Vegetables? The general concept of food preparation?”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Pine says without hesitation.
“From cooking accidents,” I add, brushing past to check the vegetables. “We protect you from everything. Unfortunately, that includes dinner-related injuries.”
The vegetables are a disaster. Half are soggy, the other half could be used as ammunition. I have no idea how they managed both, but here we are.
Cassian is practically glued to Sharon, convinced she’s seconds from tripping over air and ending up in the ICU. He looks one deep breath away from swaddling her in bubble wrap.
Pine is still torturing the rice. Flood it. Drain it. Flood it again. Dump it again. It’s like watching someone baptize a hostage for confession.
And me? I’m staring at all of it, wondering how a simple meal turned into the apocalypse.
Sharon picks up a knife, holds it wrong, and my blood pressure spikes. I catch her hand before she turns dinner prep into a medical emergency.
“Jesus, Sharon. Aim the sharp part away from your body. Basic survival.”
