"And salad," Logan adds, gesturing to his perfectly chopped vegetables with obvious relief at being able to contribute something that didn't involve breaking things.
"And garlic bread," Xavier concludes, pulling a tray from the oven that smells like butter and herbs and exactly what carb-loaded comfort food should smell like.
The table is set with simple white plates that look sturdy enough to survive dinner with three disaster-prone alphas. The dining room glows with warm light from fixtures that Griff probably installed himself, casting everything in golden tonesthat make the reclaimed wood table look like something from a magazine.
"This looks great," I say, and I mean it. The effort matters more than the broken plates and kitchen chaos. "Really."
Griff's scowl softens just slightly. He pulls out my chair with the kind of old-fashioned courtesy that surprises me, considering he's been grumpy since I walked in. His hand briefly touches my shoulder as I sit, warm through the soft fabric of my sweater.
Logan serves the pasta with careful attention to portion sizes, his movements deliberate and controlled like he's handling something fragile. Which, given his track record today, he probably should be.
Xavier pours wine from a bottle that probably costs more than my rent, his long fingers wrapped around the neck as he moves around the table. The wine catches the light as it fills my glass, deep red and expensive-looking.
I take a bite of the pasta. It's actually delicious. The sauce has layers of flavor that prove Griff knows what he's doing in the kitchen when he's not pissed off about broken dishes. The salad is fresh and perfectly dressed, the garlic bread is crispy and buttery and exactly what I needed after a day of cleaning and drama.
"This is really good," I say around a mouthful of perfectly cooked pasta, and the relief on their faces is obvious.
"Really?" Griff asks, actually looking surprised. His scowl has completely disappeared, replaced by something that might be vulnerability.
"Yeah. The sauce is perfect. Complex but not overwhelming."
"Logan helped," he admits, surprising me with the credit-sharing.
"I just chopped things," Logan says modestly, but I can see pride in his gray eyes.
"Chopping is crucial," Xavier points out, settling into his chair and adjusting his napkin with typical precision. "Uniform pieces cook evenly. Uneven pieces create texture problems and inconsistent flavor distribution."
God, sometimes Xavier opens his mouth and I need either a dictionary or a translator. Why can't he just say "nice job chopping" like a normal person? Why does everything have to sound like a medical textbook?
"Xavier supervised," Griff adds, and there's the first real smile I've seen from him all day. It transforms his whole face, making him look younger and less like he wants to punch something.
"Someone has to maintain quality control," Xavier says with mock seriousness, taking a sip of wine.
The conversation starts to flow more easily, helped by the wine and the fact that nobody's broken anything in the last ten minutes. I'm feeling the alcohol, which means my filter is about to malfunction completely. Dangerous territory when sitting across from three stupidly attractive men who apparently think cooking dinner gives them relationship points.
"So," I say, twirling pasta around my fork, "tell me about your days. Anyone else have disasters, or am I the only one living in a sitcom?"
Griff actually smirks, leaning back in his chair. "Spent the morning explaining to a client that reclaimed barn wood doesn't come with authenticity certificates proving it once housed prize-winning cattle."
"Please tell me you're joking." I lean forward, genuinely interested despite myself.
"Wish I was. They wanted 'rustic character' but were horrified when the wood looked actually used." His hand brushes mine as he reaches for his wine glass, and I ignore the electricity that shoots up my arm.
"Shocking. People wanting Instagram-worthy rustic without actual rust or dirt," I say dryly. "What's next, demanding that antiques come with warranties?"
Logan snorts into his wine. "Had a woman today who set off smoke alarms in a three-block radius because she tried to make bacon in her toaster oven."
"A toaster oven?" I stare at him. "How do you even... no, wait, don't tell me. I've lost enough faith in humanity for one day."
"Very carefully and with complete disregard for fire safety," Xavier interjects, refilling my wine glass. His fingers graze mine as he sets the bottle down, and these "accidental" touches are definitely getting less accidental.
"Says the man who probably organizes his spice rack by molecular structure," I tease, taking a larger sip than I probably should.
"Alphabetically, actually," Xavier responds with a perfectly straight face. "Much more efficient for meal preparation."
I nearly choke on my wine. "Of course you do. Let me guess, your sock drawer is color-coded too?"
"By function and season," he confirms, and I genuinely can't tell if he's serious.
