"Starving," Felix says immediately, practically lifting me off his lap like I weigh nothing. Which is bullshit because I know for a fact he eats to live and he's never excited about it. Food is my borderline obscene passion, but right now, it's about as appetizing as dirt.
"I could eat," I say slowly, watching Felix stand and tuck the laptop under his arm like it contains nuclear codes. Or porn. Though honestly, nuclear codes would be less surprising.
Archer's face lights up like someone just told him Christmas came early. "Great! I'm making my signature pasta. It's won awards."
"From who?" I ask, following them toward the kitchen even though every instinct is screaming that something's wrong. "Your mom?"
"Actually, yes," Archer admits without shame. "But she's a tough critic."
The kitchen smells like garlic and basil and other things that make my stomach remember it exists. Archer's got ingredients spread across the massive island like he's prepping for surgery, everything measured and arranged neatly.
No wonder he's so much fun to scramble into chaos.
"Can I help?" I offer, mostly to have something to do with my hands that isn't throttling Felix until he tells me what's on that laptop.
"You can taste test," Archer says, already chopping onions with the kind of knife skills that remind me he's killed people. A lot of people. Efficiently. "Felix, you mind starting the salad?"
"What, you don't trust me with a knife?" I pout.
"No," they say in unison.
"Rude," I huff, stealing a grape tomato off the cutting board and popping it into my mouth.
And just like that, we're doing domestic shit like a normal pack. Like Felix isn't hiding something. Like there isn't a weird energy between us that makes my skin itch. Like everything's fucking fine when it's clearly not.
Felix moves around the kitchen briskly, washing lettuce and slicing tomatoes like they've personally offended him. I perch on the counter, bare legs swinging, Carlisle's shirt riding up enough that Archer keeps losing focus and nearly taking his fingers off.
"So," I say, because silence makes me want to scream, "where'd you learn to cook?"
"Military taught me the basics," Archer says, stirring something that smells like heaven. "But I got really into it after discharge. Needed something to do with my hands that wasn't..." He trails off.
"Violence?" I supply helpfully.
"Yeah." He offers me a spoon. "Here, try this."
The sauce is fucking incredible, rich and complex and probably has thirty ingredients I can't pronounce. "Holy shit."
"Good?"
"I would commit murder for this pasta sauce."
"You commit murder for fun," Felix points out from his station at the cutting board.
"Yeah, but this would be motivated murder. Crime of passion. No jury would convict."
Archer laughs, and it's such a warm sound that for a second I almost forget about the weirdness. Almost forget that Felix is being cagey and distant and wrong.
The shadows start whispering again, their earlier contentment evaporating.
Secrets and lies,they hiss.The foundation cracks.
Carlisle appears in the doorway like he was summoned by the smell of food or the promise of drama. "Domestic bliss," he observes, taking in the scene with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. "How nauseating."
"You're welcome to fuck off," I tell him sweetly.
"And miss Archer's cooking? Never." He slides onto the stool next to where I'm perched, close enough that his thigh brushes mine. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't burn the place down."
"You told him?" I cry, looking at Felix in betrayal.
