Rody had had some bad dates in his time, sure. But this one—this one was breaking records. Vincent lay sprawled on the couch in Rody’s tiny apartment, looking pale as a ghost, which would’ve been fine, except he was also very, very still.
"Vincent?" Rody tried, poking him gently in the shoulder, then a little less gently in the ribs. He got nothing.
Vincent Charbonneau, the elusive, ridiculously attractive chef he’d been flirting with over lattes for weeks, wasn’t breathing.
Rody froze, the last two hours running through his mind like a horrible highlight reel. Everything had started so well. He’d brought Vincent over to his place for a “home-cooked meal,” which was really spaghetti with jarred sauce because that was the full extent of his culinary abilities. But Vincent hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d smiled in that faint, mysterious way he did, made a snarky comment about the state of Rody’s kitchen (“One cutting board? Really?”), and settled into the couch with a glass of wine and an expression that suggested he was enjoying himself.
And now he was dead.
“Oh, my God, oh my God,” Rody whispered, running a hand through his hair. “I killed him. I finally get a date with the guy, and I actually kill him. How did I—”
The wine.
It had to be the wine. He’d bought it at the discount store down the block, where the labels were in Cyrillic and half the bottles were already leaking around the corks. He’d thought it looked fine enough! The clerk even gave him a thumbs-up as he handed over his two bucks. But maybe it had been a thumbs-up of *warning.*
Panic hit him full force. He paced, trying not to look at Vincent, who remained very much dead and very much on his couch. He looked too adorable like that, his hair messy from their pre-dinner makeout, his shirt just a bit wrinkled. Rody felt like the worst human being alive.
He grabbed his phone, desperately scrolling through his contacts until he reached the name *Manon.*
She picked up on the third ring. “Rody, I told you to stop calling me at—”
“I killed him!” he hissed, glancing nervously at the couch. “He’s right here, and he’s not breathing, and—”
There was a pause. “...What did you do?”
“It was the wine, I think. You know, that cheap one from Chuck’s Market? I poured him a glass, we were chatting, and then he just… keeled over.”
It didn't take long for Manon to rush over.
Manon groaned as she entered the apartment. “So you bought bootleg wine and poisoned your date.”
“Yes!” Rody whispered frantically. “You know I don’t know how to impress people on real dates! I panicked, grabbed the first bottle I saw, and now he’s—he’s dead on my couch!”
She sighed. “Shut up,” she muttered, pushing past him to examine Vincent. She reached down to press two fingers to Vincent’s neck, her expression shifting to mild exasperation.
“So, how did you even meet this guy?” she asked, her fingers searching for a pulse.
Rody gulped. “Uh, at the café. He’s, um… a chef.” He scratched the back of his head. “Very fancy. Five-star. Runs a restaurant called… La Gueule de Something?”
“Charbonneau?” She raised an eyebrow, finally noticing the level of elegance in Vincent’s outfit. “You’re telling me you dated *Chef Vincent Charbonneau* and killed him with two-buck chuck.”
“Yes!” he whined, looking down at his hands in shame. “Is there any way we can, I don’t know… *bring him back to life?*”
She threw him a withering look. “Sorry, *doctoring corpses isn’t part of my degree.*” She sighed, shaking her head at the whole disaster. “We could maybe… dump him in the river? Take him out to the woods? Although, with his face, it might hit the news.”
Rody’s face fell. “The *river*? Manon, he deserves better than that! At least… at least bury him somewhere nice. Somewhere fancy.” He nodded to himself, as though the idea were wise and solemn. “You know, for the whole ‘distinguished chef’ thing.”
Manon threw her hands up in exasperation. “You want to drive all the way to a luxury neighborhood just so you can bury the guy *you killed*?”
“Look, he deserves—”
Vincent’s eyelids fluttered. A small, barely audible groan slipped from his mouth.
Both of them froze, staring at the couch.
“Oh, my God, he’s alive!” Rody shrieked, hands clamping over his mouth.
Vincent’s eyes opened slowly, blinking up at the ceiling before his gaze shifted to Rody and Manon standing over him like a pair of terrified deer.
“Did… I miss something?” Vincent murmured, looking dazed. He tried to sit up, then fell back with a groan, clutching his head. “What happened?”
Rody’s brain short-circuited. All at once, his panic evaporated into complete, bumbling embarrassment.
“You’re—you’re not dead,” he stammered, relief and humiliation flooding his cheeks in equal measure. “I… thought the wine was too strong or something, and then you just *fell over.*”
Vincent blinked, still squinting slightly. “Wine?” He looked around, spotted the cheap bottle on the coffee table, and let out a weak, hoarse laugh. “Oh, I don’t handle alcohol well at all.” He gave Rody a sleepy smile. “That’s why I don’t drink often.”
Manon crossed her arms, looking somewhere between outraged and amused. “So you mean to tell me that all of this—calling me over, plotting to dump the body, the melodramatic soliloquy about burying him with dignity—was just you overreacting?”
Rody shrank back, his ears turning red. “I… I didn’t know! He went pale, and he was so still, and…”
Vincent chuckled softly, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Honestly, I probably just need some water.” He glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned. “Is it really three in the morning?”
“Yeah,” Manon said dryly, tossing her gloves in the trash. “And I’ve got an early shift tomorrow.” She gave Rody one last, withering look. “This is the last time I’m helping you with one of your *stupid* disasters. Goodnight, Rody.”
With that, she grabbed her coat and stormed out, leaving Rody and Vincent in awkward silence.
Rody turned to Vincent, who was now sitting up on the couch, looking at him with a faintly amused smirk. Rody cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head. “So, uh… about that drink…”
Vincent just laughed, pulling him down onto the couch with surprising force, and whispered, “Let’s try something *safer* next time.”
