I stay in the tub for another twenty minutes, listening to cleanup and continued bickering. The water starts to cool, but my irritation keeps building. By the time the arguing dies down to occasional grumbling, I'm ready to march downstairs and show them how real adults handle kitchen responsibilities.
But hiding in the bathroom isn't a long-term solution, no matter how appealing it sounds right now.
I drain the tub and wrap myself in a fluffy towel that's probably Xavier's - expensive and soft and smelling faintly of his cologne. The guest room is quiet, filled with late afternoon light that would be peaceful if I wasn't annoyed at three alphasproving testosterone doesn't equal intelligence, and they clearly can't cook without breaking things.
I put on black yoga pants and a soft gray sweater - casual clothes that feel like armor against whatever domestic drama is waiting downstairs. My reflection shows flushed skin from the hot bath and damp hair curling around my face. I look relaxed. I don't feel relaxed.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs. Not just lemon cleaning products anymore, but something savory that suggests they actually managed to cook something despite their apparent war with dishware.
I pause at the kitchen doorway, taking in the scene.
The kitchen looks like a battlefield. Flour scattered across the granite counter, sauce splattered on the stove backsplash, and broken dishes swept into a neat pile by the garbage. So much for the cleaning I did this morning.
Griff stands at the stove wearing dark jeans and a black henley that's rolled up to his forearms, stirring something in a large pot with the kind of intense focus that suggests he's pissed off about something. Probably the broken plates. His dark hair is messed up like he's been running his hands through it, and his jaw is set in a hard line.
Logan is at the island chopping vegetables, still in his work clothes - navy firefighter t-shirt and jeans, his sandy hair looking like he just got off shift. He's got that careful, deliberate way of moving that probably serves him well in emergencies, but right now it's just making me more aware of how much effort it takes him to not break things.
Xavier has changed out of his work clothes into khakis and a crisp white button-down that probably costs more than my entire outfit. He's setting the table with their everyday dishes instead of whatever expensive plates they destroyed, adjustingeach placement with surgical precision. His dark hair is perfect despite whatever chaos happened in here.
All three look up when I appear in the doorway. Griff's scowl deepens. Logan looks sheepish. Xavier's expression is carefully neutral, like he's assessing a patient.
"Smells good," I say, choosing diplomacy over pointing out that they've managed to trash my clean kitchen in under two hours.
"It's edible," Griff mutters, not looking particularly happy about the whole situation. He doesn't turn from the stove, just keeps stirring with more force than necessary.
"We had a small incident with the plates," Logan admits, setting down his knife and gesturing toward the evidence pile with the kind of careful honesty that suggests he's used to incident reports.
"Define small," I say, crossing my arms and eyeing what looks like the remains of at least two pieces of dishware.
"Two plates," Xavier says with clinical precision, straightening a fork that was already perfectly straight. "Both salvageable with super glue if applied within the next few hours."
"Super glue?" My eyebrows go up. "On dishes?"
"It's a proven method for ceramic repair," he says like he's citing medical literature, pushing his glasses up his nose.
Griff finally turns from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, scowling harder. "We wanted to make you dinner. Shit got complicated."
“How?" I ask, though I can already see Logan shifting uncomfortably and Xavier's careful expression getting more careful.
"Logan can't multitask," Griff says bluntly, throwing his packmate under the bus without hesitation.
"My coordination is fine," Logan protests, but his cheeks are flushed.
"You're a firefighter," I point out, irritation creeping into my voice. "I'd fucking hope so."
"The plates were wet and slippery," Logan continues, like this explains everything.
Yeah, no shit. That's what happens when things are wet. Water makes things slippery. Revolutionary concept. I don't bother pointing out this obvious fact because apparently these three need a manual for basic physics.
"You dry wet things before handling them," Xavier adds helpfully, still fiddling with the table settings. "Basic physics."
I watch them standing there - Griff glowering at the stove, Logan looking defensive by the vegetables, Xavier obsessing over fork placement - and realize they're actually trying. Still making an effort to function as a household, even if their methods involve property damage and territorial disputes over dishwashing techniques.
The anger that's been building since the first crash starts to ease. Slightly.
"What did you make?" I ask, uncrossing my arms and stepping into the kitchen properly.
"Pasta," Griff says, still scowling but with a hint of something that might be pride. "Sauce is homemade. Noodles are from a box because I'm not a fucking miracle worker."
