From Frost to Flame

Part 45: Operation: Melt Vegas

Porsche's flat felt like a warm exhale after a long, confusing day.

The lights inside were soft and golden, curtains drawn against the night. As soon as they walked in, Pete slipped off his shoes and sank onto the couch without a word. Porsche tossed his keys into the bowl near the door, stretched, and wandered into the kitchen.

"I've got rice," Porsche called out, opening his fridge. "And two eggs. If we pretend hard enough, this is dinner."

Pete chuckled under his breath. "That's more than I had planned."

"Then we're already winning."

Within a few minutes, Porsche had a pan sizzling, the sound and scent of soy sauce and garlic filling the space. He moved around casually, humming along to a playlist low in the background. Pete stayed quiet, just listening, letting the comfort of the space wrap around him like a soft blanket.

"Hey," Porsche said while cracking an egg. "Want to chop the spring onions so I feel less like a tired housewife?"

Pete got up with a faint smile and joined him at the counter. The silence between them wasn't heavy anymore — just familiar.

Dinner was ready soon after, and they sat at the low table near the couch, steam rising from their bowls.

"So," Porsche said, mouth half-full, "are you gonna tell me what's eating you alive, or do I have to emotionally bribe it out of you with dessert?"

Pete stirred his spoon through the rice. "It's... about Vegas."

"Knew it," Porsche said, not even surprised.

Pete sighed. Friday night. I stayed late for the project. Vegas was still there. We ended up in the elevator together, alone. And out of nowhere, he asked about MR. Day....

Porsche blinked. "Mr. Day? The tall polite one with the too-nice smile?"

"Yes."

"What did he ask?" Porsche leaned in, already chewing slower.

"He asked if I... if I were close with Mr. Day."

Porsche choked. Actually choked. He coughed once, nearly spitting out a mouthful of rice.

"Yeah," Pete murmured. "I told him he was my senior in college. That I didn't know until recently. And then..." Pete hesitated, replaying the words. "Vegas told me not to get distracted."

"Seriously?" Porsche said between coughs, staring at Pete. "That man really dropped the 'don't get distracted' line like he wasn't the living, breathing distraction himself?"

Pete huffed a dry laugh. "Exactly."

"I know," Pete said, glancing up. "And the way he said it,   it wasn't cold. It felt... like a warning. But also not?"

"Jealous much?" Porsche muttered, shaking his head.
"Sounds like someone's struggling with his own emotional literacy."

PPete laughed, but it was soft, tired. "I don't get it. He's been ignoring me all week. Pretending I'm invisible. Then that? Then silence again today?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure if he was overthinking everything—or not thinking enough.

Porsche studied him, leaning back. "So let me get this straight—Vegas has been ignoring you for days. Then suddenly he pulls you into this weird half-jealous conversation, drops a cryptic warning, and goes back to pretending you don't exist?"

Pete nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Porsche leaned back further. "Maybe he doesn't want to feel whatever it is he's feeling. So instead of dealing with it like a sane adult, he goes full 'emotionally unavailable CEO' on you."