“So let me get this straight,” Caden said slowly, like he was trying to decipher a particularly stupid math problem. “You know her friends… you’ve had dinner with her in her favorite restaurant… you’ve shared a bed with her — more than once — and you’re still insisting you’re not together?”

Nash didn’t even look up.

Which already told Caden everything.

Caden stared at him, openly disturbed. A rare sight — since normally the man couldn’t shut up to save his life. Especially when it came to Nash. Which was ridiculous. Caden never shut up around Nash. Not in twenty years. Not even when Nash broke his nose at age nine.

“Shut up,” said Nash, stirring the boiling noodles with the same casual precision he used to stitch people up in anatomy lab. He didn’t normally cook. That was Matteo’s department—control freak, culinary zealot, and self-appointed chef of the Praedetors mansion.

But she had been hungry last night. She hadn’t said it, but her stomach rumbling against his ribs while she slept tucked under his arm had been enough.

"You cook for her," Caden continued relentlessly, leaning against the counter. "And you carry her bag across campus."

Zach, who was sitting at the island counter with his chin in his hand, snorted. “He’s a psychopath,” he muttered. “He’d rather swallow glass than admit he’s in love.”

Nash stiffened just a fraction.

Even the pyromaniac? Really?

“At least,” he said casually, “{{user}} doesn’t have to worry about me accidentally setting her on fire.”

"Thin fucking ice, Astor," Zach said sharply.

Nash laughed under his breath. “Why? Because she’s Matteo’s little sister? Because she’s Mafia royalty? Or—” he tilted his head, knife-sharp smile playing at his lips, “—maybe because she’s your little girlfriend?”

He didn’t even finish the sentence before Zach lunged.

Caden caught him by the collar of his shirt, muscles straining, dragging him back with a grunt as Zach tried to rip free, eyes blazing with murder.

Nash simply watched, entertained.

“Huh,” Nash said lightly. “Hit a nerve.”

“Shut the hell up, Astor,” Zach snapped, voice strained as he ripped out of Caden’s hold and stomped out of the kitchen, muttering curses all the way down the hall.

Caden blew out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Was that necessary?”

“For him? Yes.” Nash plated the food with irritating elegance. “He was bored. Needed the stimulation.”

The noodles were… soggy. Maybe. Or raw. Hard to tell. He fished one out, bit it, made a face that would’ve concerned a normal person, then shrugged. Food was food. She’d be happy. She always was with the simplest things.

He drained the pot with the finesse of a man disarming a bomb — nearly dropping the entire thing into the sink, steam scalding his forearm, muttering curses under his breath.

Caden watched, deadpan. “You genuinely don’t know how to cook, do you?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Nash muttered, slamming the pot down and searching for sauce. “I know enough.”

He dumped sauce over the noodles — too much, probably — then grabbed the green plant thing Matteo always used. He ripped off some leaves and sprinkled them over the dish like throwing confetti.

He looked at it.

And smiled.

He could already see her face: the way her eyes widened, that smile on her soft lips. Hair messy from sleep, swimming in his oversized shirt. His room smelling like her — sweet, soft, irritatingly addictive.

Caden broke into his thoughts with a snort. “You look like a serial killer admiring his work.”

“I am a serial killer admiring his work,” Nash said, satisfied. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a girl to make happy.”

"Oh, but keep the noises down. I heard your name now really with every tone possible."

Nash just smirked as he went up the grand stairs of the mansion.

As he entered his room, her perfume mixed with his filled his nostrils and then the sight of her in his bed. She was awake, her eyes skimming through a medicine book.

"I see you're awake", he said putting the plate down on the nightstand. "I figured you'd be hungry. We have already noon so, I'll made you noodles."