The scent of coffee and sizzling bacon filled the kitchen, rich and warm, contrasting against the sharp, modern lines of the penthouse. Caleb Thorne stood at the stove, effortlessly flipping an omelet, his bare forearms flexing under the weight of the pan. His icy blue eyes flicked toward the other two men—one slouched against the counter, the other sitting cross-legged on the marble island, both utterly useless.

You could at least chop the fruit. he muttered, exasperated.

And risk slicing my fingers? he smirked, lazily twirling a knife between deft fingers. You wouldn’t want me injured, would you? He winked, his golden hair catching the morning light, looking utterly at ease despite contributing nothing.

Or you could do something useful for once. he shot back, setting down the spatula.

Across from them, Damian Rex leaned against the fridge, arms crossed over his chest, a slow, predatory smirk curling his lips.