Page 9 of Off-Limits Daddy
ARI
Cael’s apartment was mismatched, but it worked. Old couch with new throw pillows, coffee table that probably came from his aunt, a bookshelf stuffed with video games and cheap paperbacks. The place smelled like microwave popcorn and barbecue chips, music playing low under the hum of the TV.
We were supposed to be watchingThe Mummy. The 1999 one. It was a classic, and we all knew it. Except nobody was actually watching.
“Brendan Fraser could still get it,” Layton said, kicking his feet up on the arm of the couch.
“Facts,” Cael agreed, tossing a chip at him. “But Evie? Don’t talk to me unless you’re ready to fight.”
“She carried that whole movie,” Jon added. “Himbo energy from everyone else.”
“Bro, you’re literally a himbo,” Cael shot back.
“Yeah, but I’m self-aware. That’s growth.”
I was halfway through my drink, feet propped on the edge of the coffee table, phone buzzing with some group chat I wasn’t paying attention to. It was nice, this kind of stupid. No pressure,no plans. Just the kind of night that made summer feel like it might last forever if we didn’t mess it up.
Which, of course, meant someone was about to mess it up.
“I’m starving,” Jon groaned suddenly, stretching like it was a personal tragedy. “Do we have food? Somebody order something.”
“There’s stuff in the freezer,” Cael said. “Probably.”
Jon got up and shuffled toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. We all should’ve stopped him. We didn’t. That was on us.
“Ten bucks says it’s nothing but ice cubes in there,” I said, lifting my drink.
Cael snorted. “You wanna start putting bets on my grocery situation? Iworkfor a living, thank you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Living on frozen pizza and vibes.”
Jon came back into view, holding up a bag of chicken strips like he’d discovered buried treasure. “See? Protein. I got this.”
“Oh no,” Cael muttered. “No you don’t.”
“Relax,” Jon said, already tearing open the bag. “I’ll fry ‘em.”
“You don’t know how to fryshit,” Cael shot back, already laughing. “Bro, you almost set my microwave on fire last week.”
“That wasn’t my fault. That was defective popcorn.”
“Sure.”
“I’m not eating anything you cook,” Kyree said, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Last time I almost needed a tetanus shot.”
Cael barked a laugh, booted foot nudging Kyree’s. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Hey, you burn down the apartment, I’m not covering for you,” Layton warned.
“Youloveme,” Jon said, flashing a grin like charm could make up for stupidity.
“Not enough to die in a chicken strip fire.”
I stayed where I was, watching the argument with the detached amusement of someone who knew better but wasn’t quite invested enough to intervene.
Jon just shrugged and wandered back toward the kitchen, which was mostly blocked off by a partial wall.
The Mummydroned on, the volume too low to catch more than bits of dialogue. There was the faint scrape of a pan dragging across the stove. Then more clattering. Jon’s humming, tuneless.
