Then footsteps. Big, heavy, confused footsteps getting closer.
Phoenix appears in the doorway, wooden spoon still in hand, apron still on, face arranged in an expression of such profound bewilderment that I wish I had a camera.
"Can I..." He looks at me. Looks at Rex. Looks up. "What thefuck?"
"My dick's on the ceiling," I say calmly.
"Your..." Phoenix's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. His eyes track upward to the silicone cock stuck to the ceiling like some kind of avant-garde art installation. "How?"
"I threw it at Rex's head. He ducked."
Phoenix looks at Rex. "Why was she throwing her dick at your head?"
"Because she has fucking rabies," Rex says flatly, walking out. "We've established this."
Phoenix scrubs his free hand over his face. "Okay. Just—hold on." He sets the wooden spoon on the dresser, reaches up, and plucks the silicone cock off the ceiling with one easy grab.
"Here," he says with a grin, handing it to me. "Giant alpha privileges have to come in handy sometimes, right?"
"Thanks. Don't rub it in."
Phoenix's carbonara isobscene.
Thick ribbons of bucatini coated in a silky sauce of egg and cheese and black pepper, crispy pancetta scattered through it, the whole thing glistening under the kitchen lights like he's a fucking cooking influencer now.
Rafael came back from the store with two bottles of red and a bag of fancy breadsticks. He's changed into sweats and a tank top, his kraken tattoo on full display, and he's already halfway through his first plate when I drop into my usual chair.
"This is stupid good," Raf says around a mouthful.
"Told you." Phoenix sets a plate in front of me, then one at the empty spot beside me.
Rex's spot.
Nobody acknowledges it. Nobody makes a big deal out of the fourth plate sitting there, steam rising from the pasta, in the seat where Rex could have his masked side facing the wall if he wants.
Rex appears from the hallway. He pauses at the edge of the kitchen, scanning the table. The plate. The chair. The three of us already eating like this is normal.
Phoenix doesn't look up. Just keeps twirling pasta around his fork with aggressive concentration.
Rafael takes a sip of wine.
I shove a breadstick in my mouth.
Rex sits down.
The chair scrapes against the hardwood. He stares at the plate in front of him. Then at us. Then back at the plate.
Nobody says a word.
I keep eating. Rafael pours himself more wine. Phoenix side eyes him with a mouthful of pasta.
Rex picks up his fork.
The movement is so small, so careful, that if I wasn't hyperaware of every single thing this man does, I might have missed it. His fork stabs a single ribbon of pasta and carefully coils it around the tines.
I deliberately don't watch. I am genuinely fascinated by the breadstick and that is the only thing I'm looking at right now.
Phoenix, on the other hand, is vibrating.